By bob cullen
Fifteen minutes had passed since she spoke to Daniel. She still stood in the midst of the crowd staring at and photographing the most famous home in the nation. She had no way of knowing what his response had been. She had hopes but no certainty. She dialled the second number, it too answered on the first ring
"Director Parnell." The arrogance in his voice irritated her. He had no right to assume leadership. Or was it a deliberate ploy to unsettle her? Very few people had access to this number. Had he on seeing the out-of-area ID guessed it would be her and he was now simply intent on antagonising her further?
"A bit premature aren't you Walter. But enjoy it while it lasts."
"Might I suggest you enjoy your freedom while it lasts, because I have the impression it won't last too long. Could even end before this day is out," he added. His final line concerned her. Was that an indication that Daniel really had betrayed her trust? She didn't want to believe that, but she had to be prepared for it.
"I make you one promise, Walter. Only the guilty fear the truth." She then disconnected.
She slumped down among the crowd. The people surrounding her allowed her some space. In less than a minute she transformed. She ripped off the vagrant's outfit. Beneath it she wore a stylish business suit. A blond wig covered the dishevelled hair and high heels replaced the cheap runners. Large designer glasses hid most of her face.
"It's a TV commercial," she said to the stunned observers. "The message will be: 'At this address we can change the world in forty seconds.' Meredith walked away. She left one indication of her presence, the phone she had stolen earlier from the truck parked in the service alley. Had anyone watched her they would have seen her enter the Sofitel. Fifteen minutes later she departed, a camera toting tourist, one of the many thousands of dollar spending visitors clogging the streets of Washington every day.
Her next step was fraught with risk. She had to talk to Daniel. She watched him emerge from the building carrying a brief case. She then saw the pursuers. He was being tailed. Why? Didn't they trust him either? Several minutes later she saw three suburbans exit the underground car park. They too followed the direction Daniel had taken on foot. And they were all going the wrong way, the rendezvous she'd suggested was east and they were heading west. Relief flooded through her. She followed at a discreet distance. She knew where they were going, to the Smithsonian, the National Museum of Natural History.
What a good choice, lots of people, lots of police and lots of officialdom, the perfect location for confusion. She watched as Daniel entered. Less than two minutes later she saw the three Suburbans pull to the kerb. Within five minutes an additional fifteen police vehicles had the entrance cordoned off. No one could enter or leave. Six uniformed officers stood by the door. Meredith waited and watched from a safe distance.
Daniel wondered if he could pull it off. He was an analyst, not an action man. To date everything had gone precisely as he'd planned. Though he hadn't actually sighted the tail, he knew they were there. Furthermore he knew there would be back-up.
Once inside the museum he headed to the bathroom. There he donned the police uniform, a relic of his distant past. He served three years as a Washington Police Officer prior to transferring to the Agency. Its fit was a little tighter, it reemphasised the need for diet, but not uncomfortable. He waited ten minutes in the cubicle. Re-emergence saw his hopes realised, the Museum was swarming with police officers. He was one of many.
Meredith watched the door open and the uniform emerge. She smiled. The brief case carrying planner had pulled it off. Not one of the uniforms on front door duty cast a second glance at their 'colleague.'
Without hurry he walked back along Madison Drive onto 15th Street in the direction of the White House. Elated at his own brilliance, he walked in a world of his own. He would now be able to honour his commitment with Meredith.
About one hundred yards from the Sofitel Hotel an older woman tourist carrying a heavy camera and loaded with souvenirs brushed passed him. Her words, "Room 708," interrupted his daydreaming. It took him several seconds to realise exactly what she had said. Who the hell was she? Was it a casual remark, or perhaps the offer of a prostitute? Something about her seemed familiar. He watched her walk into the stunning hotel foyer. He followed. She took the stairs, he rode the elevator.
He stood by the stair well door and waited for the woman's arrival. He paid scant attention to the vagrant exiting from an adjacent elevator. What was such a tramp doing in a five star hotel? Was he about to witness a crime? What should he do? He watched as the woman stopped in front of room 708. She produced a security card and opened the door. Sheer disbelief followed as he recognised the voice. "Do come in, Daniel."
"What the hell is going on, Meredith?"
"I wish to God I knew."
| Author Notes | This is an excerpt from midway through the novel, I really need some feedback. |
By bob cullen
He struggled to his feet as his brain attempted to assess his situation. A body bearing twin bullet wounds to the back of the head lay at his feet. In his right hand he cradled a gun. Where had it come from? Was it the murder weapon? Was he the executioner? Confusion overwhelmed him. His memory was blank, he remembered nothing. Not even his name.
A closer look at the victim triggered no recollection, the man was a stranger. A glance through a window worsened his anxiety. Where was he, he had no idea. He saw no point of recognition. A herd of Holsteins grazed in a distant field while the nearest house sat on the opposite side of the road a quarter mile away. Three children played in the yard behind the house.
A siren interrupted his thinking. The increasing volume suggested a rapid approach. The siren-blaring vehicles were now in view. Had he left it too late to flee? He watched the children, interest in their game had subsided; curiosity was now in control as they ran towards the road to investigate the source of the sound.
Instinct assumed control. Fear surrendered to a calculated reasoning, running wasn't an option, he had nowhere to go. Apprehension offered even less appeal. Without knowing why, he checked the pockets of the victim, he found a phone and a wallet. He took both. Thoughts of surrender yielded to reality on identifying his pursuers. They weren't police; their cars carried the insignia of Homeland Security. It wasn't a name he knew. Some deep-seated fear warned him to run.
The back door was bolted, from the outside. Conversely, escape via the front door was now impossible. Marksmen had assumed positions on either side of the gate with rifles aimed at the front door. Another half dozen operatives leapt the fence and ran to positions on both sides of the house. He was surrounded.
One option remained; the rear window and a hundred yard dash to the large barn that housed the cattle throughout the frozen winters. Did he have time to make the barn? Or would he become target practice for the squad of snipers? He kicked out the glass, crawled through and ran as never before.
Once inside the huge wooden structure he searched for some form of hiding place. The open design, it consisted of four walls and a roof, offered no concealment. Had he painted himself into an inescapable corner? There was nowhere to hide and only one point of exit. It was just a matter of time. Should he reconsider and hand himself in?
The sound of gunfire quelled all thought of surrender. The pursuers were taking no risks as they launched a fusillade of bullets into the house. The aggressive action suggested a live prisoner wasn't a priority. This was a deliberate and premeditated attack and he was the target. Why? What had he done? One thing became obvious; the barn would become the next point of attack.
A second burst of sirens rose above the gunfire. Reinforcements were on the way. How many pursuers were required to apprehend a lone unarmed killer. A brief examination of the weapon eased his conscience; he wasn't the killer. The gun contained no ammunition, nor had it been discharged recently. His skill in dissembling and reassembling the weapon surprised him, as did the ability to determine its usage. Where had this knowledge come from?
Next he sought some explanation for his presence at the scene. He didn't know the victim, nor could he pinpoint the location. Nothing made sense. And, if he hadn't been responsible for the murder, why had he been set up?
If only he could remember something about yesterday. Where had he been? Who had he been with? What had he been doing? His memory remained a vacuum.
In an attempt to rationalize further he searched the pockets of the clothes he wore. He found a wallet containing a number of credit cards, all in different names, a Montana driver's licence in yet another name, forty dollars in cash and a cell phone. He was none the wiser. One point troubled above all others. Who was this Homeland Security? Were they another CIA-like Government Agency? Was he a spy, or a traitor? What had he done?
The licence bore the name Calin Roberts and it listed an address in Billings. Was it paranoia or realistic to question everything? Was the cell phone tagged to identify his whereabouts if and when used? He had similar suspicions with the credit cards and driver's licence. Was one of the identities genuine? He had no way of knowing.
He weighed his options. A sense of futility swept over him. There was no escape, nowhere to go and no one to turn too. A man with no memory had neither family nor friends. Nor any point of reference on which to plan a workable or effective response.
In the absence of alternatives, he chose to accept the identity Calin Roberts. So what did he know about Roberts? He endeavoured to analyse the few facts he knew. One, he was a fugitive, a military fugitive. Two, he possessed knowledge of firearms. Three, an order to terminate him had been issued. The term 'terminate' struck a familiar chord.
He closed his eyes and attempted to draw some conclusions from these three facts. It was an authorised execution, plain and simple. Why? Was it something he'd done, or something he knew? He sensed the latter. All contemplation halted on hearing the gunfire cease. He knew what to expect, the barn door would be thrown open and they would come in blasting.
There was nowhere to run. He hoped death would come quickly. Within seconds, the truth became obvious. A deafening explosion preceded a massive shock wave. Guns had given way to a mortar attack. The detonation lifted him off his feet. It triggered a visible trembling of both the earth floor and structure. The barn walls and roof convulsed from the effects of the blast. He watched in horror as large sections of the tin roof peeled from its beams in an earthquake like response. The thick timbers groaned like an arthritic man struggling out of bed, a total cave-in appeared imminent.
Without knowing why, he scrambled on hands and knees towards the feed bins attached to the barn wall. Situated several feet above the floor the space beneath them would, he hoped, provide some protection in the event of the collapsing of walls or roof. Ten seconds later he watched the wall opposite crumble. In a domino like effect, the remaining walls completed the barn's destruction.
He was engulfed by dust as a dense cloud rose from the floor. Breathing became impossible. Every inhalation contained far more dirt than fresh air. His throat constricted from the lack of oxygen. Was suffocation preferable to execution by bullet? Soon he would know. He lost consciousness.
| Author Notes | Two years ago I posted this chapter accompanied by a note stating I didn't know where it was headed. The manuscript is now completed and being submitted to agents. This chapter has been reworked. |
By bob cullen
He awoke to the sound of one angry voice barking orders and to the frenetic activity of many others implementing those instructions. Darkness had descended. How long had he been unconscious? Time was no longer relevant. Every thought now centred on survival. He struggled to breathe, the air passages were now clogged with dirt.
Footsteps could be heard tramping over the fallen walls. Saws and drills screamed as they attempted to cut an opening through the solid timber structure. A loud crash indicated entry had been accomplished. His fears worsened. To him the sound of the breakthrough had the death-knell ring of the hangman's trapdoor. He could almost feel the rope around his neck.
Beams of torchlight penetrated the night's blackness. Each shaft of light brought the searchers closer. In desperation he retreated as far into the recess behind the feed bins as possible. It was hopeless; a blind man would find him. It was only a matter of time. Like a bug in a spider's web, he was trapped. There was no way out.
A whistle blew, bringing a halt to the barn search. The rescue patrol crawling beneath the barn rubble withdrew less than thirty feet from where he hid. The man being sought couldn't believe his luck. Good fortune had saved him, at least in the short term. He vowed to take advantage of this break. He knew there was only one way to survive, he had to flee. There was no time to plan and next to no opportunity.
Darkness was his one ally, darkness and the forty dollars. In his haste to get away he dropped the pistol, not that it mattered, it was useless anyway. Progress was slow; the anticipated route beneath the food troughs narrowed to the point of impassability, there was no way forward. The crushing weight of the major roof beam had obliterated his exit. He was now comprehensively cornered.
There was, he knew, no solution. He could wait to be found under the rubble or he could call for help and surrender. He could starve, or he could be shot. In a sense of futility he retraced his path. On passing his hiding place he experienced the hopelessness of an innocent prisoner walking to the execution chamber. Every avenue of appeal had been exhausted, yet truth had been denied.
The absolute silence unnerved him, it was unnatural. Not even a whisper. Either they were the most disciplined troop of soldiers ever, or they had slipped into sleep. The obvious became apparent; a single marksman sat perched awaiting his appearance. Calin, if that was his name, hoped the shooter was an expert. He'd prefer death to incarceration.
A heavy cloud cover blackened the night and threatened rain while the temperature dipped below fifty degrees, it was chilly and it would get colder. His clothing was anything but appropriate. His ever-growing cynicism of set-up took on more certainty. The fabric was summery thin and the colour fluorescent ensuring easier sighting at night. He would either freeze to death or become a sniper's target.
To survive he knew he had to make changes. He needed camouflage. What was available? He saw only dirt. Seconds later a plan emerged. He required an implement to pound the dirt into dust. Discarded timber offcuts left by the saw became his hammer.
With a sizable pile of dirt converted to dust one additional ingredient was needed, moisture to turn the dust into mud. He formed a hollow in the centre of the heap prior to urinating into the well. He mixed it until he had the required texture. Where had this idea come from? Once the paste was ready he stripped naked and applied the mixture over his body. A mirror would have revealed a man as black as night. He was now as ready as he would ever be. He carried the cash, credit cards and licence in his hand.
The breeze had strengthened and the first flickers of rain cooled the air further. Calin knew it was time. He raised his head above the fallen timbers, there was no response. He surveyed the surrounds; the shattered remains of the house obstructed a clear view. In the distance he saw a lighted cigarette dangling from someone's mouth. Judging from the path of the red glow, the smoker was performing some form of patrol. Calin observed for several minutes, the soldier displayed no interest in the barn.
Calin fled into the night.
Hypothermia and hunger make for uncomfortable companions. Calin experienced both. He'd not slept nor washed. Nor had he remembered. But he had escaped and survived using skills from an unknown past. Who was he? And where had this training come from? He feared many things, including himself and his background.
He had no idea how far he'd travelled since leaving the barn. Based on the assumption he proceeded at around three miles per hour, he estimated he'd covered around twenty miles. The farming landscape had altered, pastures had yielded to houses. He was now overlooking a smallish town. He counted half a dozen stores, a church, a doctor's surgery, a pharmacy and a fast food outlet adjoined to a gas station. Several of the buildings featured the name Dalton. He had a town name, a name he didn't recognise. The majority of the vehicles he'd seen carried Montana registration. And if the licence was genuine, Billings was in Montana? But where, if only he had a map, or a memory.
His feet were cut and bruised yet he knew he couldn't slow. He had to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Holstein farm. First he needed food, sleep and clothing.
After several hours observation he selected his target. The house sat back off the road on a two acre block. He'd watched the parents head off to work in separate cars and then observed the children riding a school bus into town. The house was empty, or so he thought. A nonsensical adage sprung to mind. 'See but don't be seen.'
He tried the side door to the garage, it wasn't locked. A sparkling Harley Davidson commanded centre stage. Calin eyed it off as a potential mode of transport prior to sorting through a tool box. He found the equipment he required. Unlike the garage, the rear door of the house was secured. Within ten seconds it yielded to Calin's talents. Break and enter was another of his dubious skills. He moved with stealth. 'Hear but don't be heard,' was as appropriate as the earlier thought.
The third bedroom door presented his first setback. The bed was occupied by an old, infirmed and now terrified lady. He silenced her scream with his dirt covered right hand.
"I'm not going to harm you." Her tear filled eyes conveyed absolute panic. He understood fear and knew how to best implement it. His mud caked and naked body threatened by its very presence. His words offered no comfort.
How did one calm a panicked hostage? He knew the instant he lifted his hand she'd raise the roof with calls for help. How could he silence her without causing injury? His left hand located the correct pressure point. She lapsed into unconsciousness. The same question surfaced. Where did I learn that?
The medicine cabinet contained everything he needed. Adhesive tape to restrain and maintain her silence, medication to treat the aches and pain he was experiencing and antibiotic ointments to combat any infection the cuts and abrasions he'd suffered in his overnight escape might attract. He used the tape to secure her wrists behind her back and her ankles to the base of the bed.
Never had a shower felt better, he soaped himself three times in an endeavour to rid himself of the smell of the urine based mud. He remained under the hot water as long as he dared. After towelling himself off, he checked on the old woman, she was still breathing.
He experienced guilt on stealing the husband's clothing and footwear. There was however no option. In a wardrobe drawer he found a thick wad of $100 notes, several thousand dollars he figured. He peeled off five notes. Beside the cash he saw a cell phone. It too found a way into his pocket. He had one important call to make.
| Author Notes | Despite escaping Calin knows he is far from safe |
By bob cullen
After checking on the condition of the elderly woman, her breathing appeared steady, Calin undertook a final sweep of the house. In the kitchen he found a bowl of fruit, he grabbed two apples and an orange. He continued through the house.
Without knowing what his search might unveil or harbouring any expectations of a worthwhile find, he ventured into what he imagined was the den. Everything in the room conveyed masculinity. A vast display of sporting memorabilia ran the length of one wall while celebrity photographs lined another wall.
Two life-size enlargements held pride of place. In the first, Michael Jordon towered over his companion. Autographed with a handwritten message that read 'To a straight shooter from a straight shooter,' it featured the man of the house. A wedding photo in another room confirmed his identity. The second photo featured the garaged Harley or one like it with the husband as rider. Grouped around him were John Travolta, Tim Allen and William Macy on the movie set of Wild Hogs. It too carried autographs and a message. It read; 'To our brother biker.' A set of keys adorning a Harley key ring sat beneath the photo. Calin had found his escape.
With no memory of riding a motorbike, Calin wheeled the bike through the garage's side door and out onto the road. He mounted the Harley, keyed the ignition and listened to the engine roar into life. In that instant he knew he'd ridden before, bike and rider became one. The rush of air fired his adrenalin; he was on a trip of discovery.
An hour into his journey he pulled off the road. It was time to make the call, the old lady should, by now be conscious. He hoped the Margaret listed in the stolen phone's memory was the woman he'd seen in the wedding photograph.
The voice he heard sounded bright and cheerful. That was about to change.
"Don't be alarmed, Margaret, but do exactly what I say. Go home; your mother is in need of help."
"Who are you?" The chirpiness had yielded to absolute fear.
"Calin..." He hoped the listener detected his discomfort; the blurting out of the name was deliberate, as was the feigned uncertainty.
He disconnected, placed the phone in his pocket and remounted the Harley and continued to put as much distance as possible between himself and the farm where the shooting had taken place.
Hunger prompted his next decision. He'd not eaten in the best part of twenty four hours. It was now mid-afternoon Thursday and the farm shooting had commenced around four yesterday. And still he had no idea why.
He selected a booth beneath a television screen, a news programme was underway. A logo advising of breaking news flashed onto the screen. For the first time in two days he saw an image that triggered a positive memory. He recognised the picture on screen. It was the home where he'd showered, stolen clothing and money and found the Harley. He listened in disbelief. It was all lies. The reporter's name, Rachel Costello, featured on the screen. Calin noted the name.
'When police arrived at the house they found two bodies, an older woman and her married daughter, both had been beaten and raped. According to a reliable source, a significant amount of cash is also missing. Police are in the process of preparing an artist's image of a suspect. He is said to be in his late thirties and is thought to be riding a stolen Harley Davidson motor bike.' A photograph of the bike now appeared on screen.
Calin left the restaurant without ordering. Survival again assumed priority over hunger. A hundred questions attacked his brain. Had he killed the two women in a psychotic trance? Could he trust his memory, the twenty four hours of memory he possessed?
He heard the phone ring. How did they know about the phone, its number and the missing money? Had the husband provided the information?
Every instinct warned him of the danger in responding to the call. Logic offered the cruel truth. They were endeavouring to pinpoint his whereabouts and answering would enable the processing of trace procedures. Yet the need to know, overpowered common sense. Who were they and what had they done to him. More specifically, what had they done to his memory?
"You've got ten seconds." His finger rested on the disconnect key.
"Calin." One word was enough, he knew the voice. There was familiarity but no recognition. Who was it? It was, he sensed, someone from his past. "Come in.
We'll help you."
Where had he heard that phrase before? 'Come in. We'll help you.' He hung up.
Analyse your information prior to making any decision. The phrase rebounded in his head. What did it mean? And what information was available? Prior to formulating any plan he endeavoured to clarify his thoughts. He retraced his actions since fleeing the barn. Everything he'd done had the markings of professionalism. He possessed skills that bordered on criminal along with a basic medical training and military expertise.
They knew his name, Calin. How was that possible? Memory, an empty vault a day earlier, provided the answer. He had told the woman. And she had told them. She had been alive, he wasn't the killer. Relief flooded over him. As did his anger, the pursuers had created another lie. The script had been written; Calin understood the process. And, he feared, the end was near.
How did one counter liars? Deception; anticipate their move and do the opposite. So what did they have? The Harley had been identified. In plotting the path he'd already taken from the barn to the point where he'd stolen the bike and now to the region where the satellite monitoring the call had triangulated his position they would have no problem in assessing his probable destination, the address listed on the Calin Roberts drivers' licence. Billings.
The speed and ease of the plan's development amazed Calin. Deception was a two-edged sword and it was a game he sensed he had played before. He reached for the phone he'd taken from Margaret's house. He selected the call back key. The call answered on the first ring.
"I want to come in. I'll call back in one hour. I want a name and a meeting point." He disconnected before they could respond.
Forty minutes later he called back. In advancing the schedule, Calin hoped to unsettle his pursuers, to catch them unprepared. A different voice answered. "Alexander." The ploy had worked, assuming the name was genuine, he now had an identity.
"Where is he?" Calin demanded. He had mastered the tone he wanted; it conveyed both anger and panic.
"He's with the Director." Calin smiled. Alexander had responded as he had hoped. The title Director suggested one of the covert organisations operating out of the Pentagon. A disturbing thought crossed Calin's mind; had he once been an employee of this unidentified Agency. If so, what had he done to warrant the termination order? "I'll patch you through."
"Don't bother. Tell him my memory's returning and I know how the game is played. You might also mention I'm fast running out of patience and if I don't get a name I'll disappear forever, but not before I talk to a friend in the media."
By bob cullen
The instant Calin disconnected, his mind went into overdrive. He understood the need for action, and for decisions; a stationary object was an easy target. He also knew decision making without adequate knowledge was fraught with danger, but danger had, he sensed, long been a reliable companion.
His stomach groaned in hunger. With the sun sliding towards the western horizon Calin experienced hunger pains, he'd not eaten in more than twenty four hours. Still food was of minor importance, first he had to locate some form of transport out of Montana. He remembered the fruit he'd taken from the house. Never had an apple tasted sweeter.
The minute he saw the truck stop the plan evolved. It was so simple. From a distance he watched each trailer enter and leave the massive parking bay. He studied the driver's habits as they exited their vehicle's cabin. Most headed straight for the diner, some stood around in groups smoking and talking while a few undertook thorough examinations of their rigs checking on tyres, locks and overall condition of trailers. These drivers were ruled out.
Next he observed the drivers themselves. Like a buyer at a cattle sale he studied composition and proportion. While the buyer searched for value and excellence, Calin sought areas of weakness. He looked for complacency, a driver slowed by age and approaching the twilight of his career, preferably carrying a little too much weight and road weary from the many hours at the wheel.
Calin had a couple of final requirements and they weren't driver related. Instead they concerned the vehicles. His plan called for two vehicles, one taking I-90 heading towards the west coast and another going east on the same Interstate. In an endeavour to identify the probable destinations, Calin looked to the registration plates and the door signage.
He pinpointed the west bound truck first, it carried Californian plates and a San Diego company name plastered on the door. He was a long way from home.
The Ford Louisville carried twelve brand new Mustangs headed, Calin hoped for the California automotive market. Fortune favoured him, the truck parking bay was crowded and the transporter found a space well away from the diner. The security lighting nearest to this point had failed. Relative darkness afforded Calin the protection he sought.
The driver fit the criteria Calin had sought. Even better, this driver walked with a noticeable limp. He displayed no interest in checking out his rig and walked by several other drivers without attempting conversation. He appeared to be a loner.
Calin wheeled, rather than rode the Harley around the parking perimeter to avoid prying eyes. Once beside the Mustang transporter he realised his first problem, there wasn't enough space between the sleek cars to park a motor bike. Somehow he managed; he wrestled the bike flat on the trailer, its front wheel secured to the rear of the third Mustang on the lower deck.
To further enhance the impression of his presence, Calin picked the lock on the passenger's door of the sedan he'd attached the bike too. He kept an eye on the diner's front door; the driver had entered more than forty minutes earlier. He didn't know how long he had to create the deception. A memory from the past came to mind. 'Good deception requires the presence of credibility.'
Once inside the Mustang, Calin extended the seat back as far as possible. He rolled the jacket he'd been wearing into a ball, it became his pillow. He pressed it hard against his head prior to rubbing it vigorously on his hair. He hoped several strands of hair lodged in the jacket's fabric. He allowed the jacket to then slide off the headrest onto the floor behind the front seat. Investigators would hail its discovery as a major breakthrough.
With the aim of producing more evidence, Calin provoked a sneezing attack which spread mucus over much of the cars' interior. Calin then made a clumsy attempt to wipe the car clean of both fingerprints and DNA evidence. He ensured sufficient remained to provide forensic identification of the identity of the occupant who'd spent time in the Mustang.
Calin didn't see the driver return; he had dozed off. Realisation arrived on hearing several voices prior to the opening and slamming of the driver's door. An instant later the truck's engine kicked into life. Calin knew he was trapped. There were too many prying eyes in and around the diner to attempt escape. He would have to wait until they were on the road.
The Louisville picked up speed and headed west into the night. The glow of headlights from behind had lessened as the traffic flow thinned in the early hours of the morning. Calin guessed they had travelled at least a hundred miles from the diner. He eased open the Mustang's door. Comfort quickly surrendered to distress. The warmth of the car's interior contrasted to the cold air worsened by the chill factor caused by the vehicles speed. A timed calculation confirmed the speed, The Louisville covered the distance between two five mile mileage markers in a tick over four minutes, he had utilised the cell phone's clock for timing. That equated to an average speed of 75 miles per hour. Any jump at this speed would end in death.
Without his jacket, it remained on the Mustang's floor, he near froze. Was there a way of slowing the vehicles speed? Nothing came to mind. Nature, in the topographic form of a steep incline, intervened and brought about a dramatic decrease in pace. The driver worked through the gears as he tried to maintain momentum. It was a losing battle; the climb overpowered the massive motor and provided Calin with the opportunity he required. He jumped and rolled.
Even at this slowed rate the impact with the gravel surface produced immediate trauma and massive abrasion. He felt skin peel from his shoulders, hips and knees as they took the brunt of the landing. Agonising pain ripped through his entire body. Calin had no doubt bones were broken. He tried to stand but his legs refused to obey the brain's command.
In the distance he saw headlights. His desperation deepened, he couldn't afford to be found or rescued. He half-crawled and half stumbled off the road's shoulder prior to falling into a grass covered dry creek bed. Aware of the perils of remaining in the open, he somehow found the energy to drag himself into the huge concrete culvert that crossed beneath the highway. Hidden by the darkness Calin blacked out.
He awoke cold, stiff, covered in blood and feeling like he'd been trampled by a rampaging herd of wild elephants. The morning sun would clear the horizon within a couple of hours. Darkness had stilled the wind and taken the temperature thirty. He heard rather than saw the traffic passing overhead.
Calin cursed with dismay as he reached for the phone in his pocket, it was smashed beyond repair, a victim of his crash landing. He'd lost his one link to explanation, Alexander. Pain and hunger, the ugly faces of reality, attacked his dwindling resources of hope. Despair assumed control. How much longer could he survive? Suicide entered his thoughts. It would be so simple to run into the path of an oncoming truck. It would be over in seconds.
Surrender ain't never no option, soldier. SANNOS. Frustration swept over him as another familiar phrase from the past tormented him. What significance did it hold? Damn you memory, damn you.
It had been some form of training, military training. A rigid discipline had been imposed. He'd been trained to survive, and to kill. For now he'd settle on survival, and to ensure that he had to reprogram his mind. And his body. Pain must be eliminated, or at least overcome. His body screamed as he commenced pacing back and forth through the culvert. A slow walk accelerated into a march, then a jog and finally into a full paced run. Push-ups and a series of floor exercises followed. Forty minutes later he rested. There had been no elimination of pain, in fact it had worsened but he ignored its effect.
He'd poured every ounce of energy into the workout, he was drained both physically and mentally. He needed rest and time to plan. Already he'd reached one decision, he'd rest up all day allow time to recuperate and move tonight. Where he'd go was still to be determined. He hoped the Harley remained undiscovered.
While the concrete floor of the culvert provided no comfort, it did offer seclusion. Calin settled into a restless nap. Fugitives rarely enjoyed peaceful sleep. The sound snapped him instantly alert. It was a single scream, a woman's plaintive plea for help. Where had it come from?
With no repetition Calin pondered the possibility of a nightmare, or was it simply his sub-conscious replaying a memory he couldn't recall, the rape and murder of two women. That prospect forced an involuntary shudder. Perhaps he was an out-of-control killer. The sound he next heard eased him of guilt. It also propelled him to immediate action.
"Shut the fuck up or I'll kill ya." A distressed whimpering was the reply. Her sobbing allowed Calin to identify her approximate whereabouts.
Unarmed Calin searched the culvert for some form of weapon. He found nothing. Her crying grew louder. He could delay no longer.
With the silent stealth of a jungle fighter, he approached.
The girl was naked on the ground while the rapist crouched above, gun in hand. He was sweeping the pistol across her body making all forms of lewd suggestions.
Calin attempted to formulate a plan. Every circumstance favoured the man with the gun; he had selected his location with care. It was an open area, at least ninety feet in diameter. An impossible distance to cover before the shooter could raise his gun. Moreover it was far enough from the highway to avoid the attention of passers-by and close enough to enable an easy escape.
Calin saw no alternative, in all probability someone was going to die. Was it to be the girl, or him? He needed some form of distraction. Again he surveyed the scene. Why hadn't he seen this earlier? The rapist displayed no form of arousal. Was the gun his source of sexual gratification? An idea came to mind.
"Can't you get it up without a gun, cretin?" Calin screamed as he commenced his suicide dash.
Shock delayed the rapist's reaction, but only by an instant of a second. He turned towards Calin, still thirty feet away and raised his pistol. Calin's eye transfixed on the gun's barrel, he imagined he saw it dip ever so slightly. He felt himself falling.
By bob cullen
She was by far the most attractive so far and probably the one who most resembled the photos he'd seen of his mother, petite, blonde and large breasted. And like his mother, and victims one and two, she too worked in a hospital.
He was never really sure who he hated most, his mother or nurses. His mother had abandoned him at three while an inattentive nurse had rendered him impotent in a botched operation.
Number three, he never bothered to discover their names, had the misfortune to be drinking alone in a bar when he walked in. She made three crucial mistakes. She flirted outrageously, admitted to being a nurse and agreed to accompany him to dinner.
Her obvious promiscuity disgusted him. She was so like his mother. Tonight she would pay.
He slipped the drug into her drink while she was in the bathroom. It took effect as she rode in his car.
Absolute fear registered on her face when she regained consciousness. He had her where he wanted her.
*
Some days you just shouldn't get out of bed. Today had been one of those days. Jessica had fought with her mother, busted up with her boyfriend and been suspended from duty after an argument with a doctor. She was thoroughly pissed off, life sucked. She needed a drink.
She was on her fifth drink, and relaxed when he walked in. Something about him intrigued her, he exuded confidence yet she sensed a degree of doubt as if it were all an act. He was witty, good looking, a footballer's body with a model's head and intelligent, the complete package, body, brains and personality.
The invitation to dinner didn't surprise her. She thought about calling her mother but decided against. Tonight would be fun.
Drowsiness hit her as they drove. She put it down to the stress of the day and perhaps one drink too many. She drifted into sleep.
Awareness returned with a cruel vengeance; she'd been drugged. How long had she been unconscious? A glance at her watch revealed it was 4.00am. They had left the bar around 10.35. Where were they? What had she done?
She was on the ground and naked. Her arms were stretched at right angles to her torso and secured into the ground with pegs. Restraints hadn't yet been applied to her legs. He was perched above her with his gun. The smile he'd worn in the hotel had yielded to a sadistic viciousness. The smooth talking charmer had become an evil and violent rapist.
She screamed. His reaction was swift, his hand struck with a fearsome slap.
"Shut the fuck up, or I'll kill ya." He taped her mouth with industrial adhesive tape. Nothing though would silence her sobbing.
Time lost all relevance as she lapsed into prayer for the first time in years. She felt mortified as the barrel invaded her privacy. His callous laughter furthered her humiliation. Now she pleaded with the Lord for a quick death.
The emergence of another voice stunned her. Then she saw him, running towards her, running towards the gunman and running towards certain death. The gunman rose from his crouch, turned and faced the man running at him. Then he took aim. She wanted to scream a warning, the tape blocked all sound. She wanted to turn away, not see an innocent man die. Instead she lashed out with her foot catching the gunman's ankle. He stumbled as he fired. Her efforts proved futile, the runner went down, Jessica's tears were no longer directed at self, the stranger had died trying to save her.
The gunman regained his balance, whipped around and delivered the most scathing glare. It was hostility in its vilest form. Jessica knew she'd not leave the scene alive.
He stood over her, teeth bared like a wild animal. His breathing was erratic and his eyes blazed with the frenzied fanaticism of a crazed zealot. He truly was insane. Please God, just make it quick.
He was in no hurry. It was his game and he made the rules. He was, it seemed, drawing sadistic pleasure at watching her distress. She was the tiny mouse thrown into the taipan's glassed enclosure, no escape just waiting for the snake to strike.
"It's time now, girlie," he said as he ripped his shirt off. His trousers followed, he wore no underwear.
*
Futility gave way to resignation. Nothing could save her. She closed her eyes and waited. Seconds passed. What was he waiting for? She heard the most awful crack, it sounded like the breaking of bone. She expected to feel pain. Instead she heard the thump of a solid object fall to the ground beside her.
Next Jessica felt hands on her arms, gentle hands, she was being released. She allowed her eyes to open. Vision defied all belief. The rapist would rape no more, his neck hung at an obscene angle, his eyes protruded almost out of their sockets and the ugliness of his final lust would ride with him to eternity.
The stranger assisted Jessica to her feet and offered her his blood-soaked shirt. It was then she saw the extent of his injuries. Much of the skin on his shoulder and side was red raw, as if he'd been dragged across a concrete road. The wound where he'd been shot was still bleeding. The flow had to be halted. He needed immediate hospitalization. Her nakedness wasn't as important as his need for medical attention.
"You need a doctor," she said tightly folding the shirt he'd provided and compressing it into the wound. "This might be arterial."
"If that was the case I'd be dead already."
"Who are you?"
"I don't know."
"You killed him." Shock overwhelmed her. She couldn't control either the tears or the trembling.
"There was no other way." The stranger's statement triggered so many contrasting thoughts. She had seen what happened and feared the consequences. She was now an accessory to a killing. Would authorities accept her version of events? Should she turn herself in? While logic and belief in the justice system favoured that option, memories of recent events had shattered forever her faith in the ethical behaviour of many of those in positions of authority. In the midst of this internal debate she recognised her saviour. A sense of doom swept over her.
"You're the guy who raped and killed those two women in Dalton." She was standing naked in front of an alleged sexual predator.
"They're lies, I was there, but I didn't kill anyone." His voice contained neither anger nor remorse. He was either the world's most accomplished liar or he was speaking the truth. "I admit I broke into the house, stole money and a bike. There was an older woman there who I tied up, but she was alive when I left. I'm being set-up."
"Why?"
"I only wish I knew."
"You don't remember anything?"
"Sometimes I get a flashback, but nothing of significance. I don't even know my own name."
"Let me take another look at those wounds," she said on lifting the shirt from the wound. A moment later she added. "The bleeding's stopped but it still needs attention." Her eyes now scanned the rest of his upper body. She had never seen so many scars on one body.
"My God you've been in some scraps. Have you been in the military? Or, are you just a street brawler?"
"Military, I think."
"Shouldn't they be able to help you?"
"I suspect they're more interested in silencing me."
"Does that really happen?"
"In books all the time but not so often in real-life situations," he said.
"What then are your plans?"
"I want to learn the truth. Find out who I am and discover what it is I'm supposed to have done."
"Any ideas on where to start?" she asked.
"I have two names. Calin Roberts, the name on the driver's licence I'm carrying and Alexander."
"Who is Alexander?"
"I don't know. I received a call on the phone I stole from the house where the two women were murdered. Investigators had obviously identified the phone and its number. On recognising the call's area code, I suspected it was Washington. I answered it, hoping it might be an offer of assistance. It wasn't. Instead it was an invitation to 'come in.' I disconnected."
"That doesn't answer my question, who is Alexander?"
"Someone who knows who I am," said Calin.
"How then do you propose to find this Alexander?"
"It's more a case of allowing him to find me."
"Didn't you just suggest there's an order out to silence you? Wouldn't it be simpler to discover who Calin Roberts is?" Jessica now wore the blood-stained shirt she'd used to stop the stranger's bleeding. "By the way, my friends call me Jess."
"I'm Calin," he replied. His face broke into a smile as he added. "I think."
"Calin it is then." Her smile was short lived as she grew serious. "Shouldn't we get moving? Who knows when someone will discover the body?"
"What's this we business. You're not coming with me. You're taking his car and going back where you belong. I'm a marked man with no future."
"You saved my life, I owe you."
"Jess, listen to me. You owe me nothing. In all probability I'll be dead inside a week. The only thing you can do for me is pray that it's quick." He turned and headed into the bush.
"Stop," she yelled. He turned back at her. "At least give me the chance to drop you someplace. Maybe get you a decent meal."
"Jess, the minute I get into the car with you, my DNA will lodge somewhere in the vehicle. You will be identified as my accomplice and you too will be targeted. I can't do that to you."
"To use your word, I'm targeted now by wearing this shirt. Your blood is all over it. I'm not leaving you, Calin, not in the state you're in." She now stood beside him and recognised the ineptness of her response. Greater persuasion was required. "I'll make a deal." His eyes spelled refusal, he didn't want her help. Or did he consider her presence amounted to a burden? That made more sense. "Let me tend to your injuries, you've lost a lot of blood and infection is more than a possibility. I'll provide medical care, nothing else. Looking at you it's obvious you're in need of two things, sleep and nourishment. Give your body a chance to recover."
| Author Notes | This is rather long, I apologise for that |
By bob cullen
She was right. He was way beyond exhaustion. And in many ways beyond salvation, his pursuers allowed only one outcome, termination. He was a dead man walking, a contagious ailment that affected anyone tainted with his knowledge. He had to deny her assistance. Yet he recognised the validity of her statement, his energy levels were depleted. Could he keep her involvement invisible?
Without energy there could be no fight. And without fight there would be no truth. Depression overcame him. "You've got two days."
A quick scrutiny of the motor vehicle revealed both the ownership and the identity of the rapist. Next Jess placed a call to the listed address on the driver's licence. A recorded message advised he was holidaying in Canada for ten days. He wouldn't be missed.
"You had better call your Mum and tell her you've taken a couple of days R & R. We don't want her lodging a Missing Persons report," said Calin. "We can't leave anything to chance, Jess." There was so much more he wanted to say, but silence was, he knew, the correct option at this time, silence and subterfuge. He had to rearrange Jess's perception of him. She had seen him as a killer, she needed to see his compassion. He adopted a softer tone.
"One thing I remember and I sense it was a lesson learned from my past life, is the need to maintain credibility. Every lie must be believable and where possible supported by fact."
"Did the same rule apply to your employer?"
"I believe so, but they enjoyed one additional feature, deniability. They have the advantage of rewriting facts, after the event."
"Based on that, perhaps you should take a closer look at the address on your driver's licence in Billings."
"No way, Jess, I'd never get out of there alive."
"You misunderstand," she added in explanation. "I'm not for a minute suggesting we do a drive-by, there are far simpler ways of checking out a neighbourhood. It's called Google maps. We just need a computer and we can zoom in and view any address in the entire country.
"First though, we need to find us someplace to clean ourselves up. I doubt any reputable motel would rent a room to two blood-soaked guests."
*
The stream was little more than a creek but there was sufficient current to ensure a constant flow. The water was cold, close to freezing but it achieved its purpose, all physical evidence of blood was removed. If only the same could be said of the emotional scarring. Calin had noted Jess's deteriorating state of mind. Her hands were no longer steady. Her voice levels were increasing and her breathing was way too rapid. Breakdown was imminent.
The warmth of the vehicle failed to ease her distress, she shivered uncontrollably. Calin recognised the ever advancing, and untreatable symptoms of shock. It would, he feared worsen before it improved. Her sobbing graduated into an irreversible river of tears as the shivering surrendered to the unmistakable trembling of sheer terror. Panic had set in.
Calin wore clothes he'd found in the vehicles trunk, they didn't fit well but they were free of blood. He knew what he had to do. He checked the fuel gauge, it was close to full. Tonight there would be no stopping; all thoughts of rest would have to wait. Jess had lost all control and could erupt into outburst at any moment. Who knew what she might say? He had to protect her from herself. If only he could get her to sleep.
The words came from nowhere, he'd heard them before but he couldn't recall where or when. Who was the little girl? And who was the singer? Memory failed him.
'Go to sleep, go to sleep
Go to sleep little girl
Go to sleep, go to sleep
My precious white pearl
We know not tomorrow
And what it might bring
So sleep now my baby
And I'll be your king
Calin glanced across, her eyes had closed. Twice more he repeated the few lines he recalled. He wished he remembered more.
Her breathing slowed. The respite lasted fifteen minutes, she awoke with a scream.
"It's all right, Jess," he soothed.
Tension was back. Her eyes darted in every direction. "Where are you taking me?"
"Would you like to go home?" The question attracted the desired response, uncertainty. The impact of her situation induced panic. "It helps if you talk about it, Jess."
"How do you know all this stuff? What sort of man are you?"
He could see her anger mounting. She was searching for someone to blame."I can't answer that, Jess," said Calin. "The honest truth is, I don't know."
"Can't, or won't answer it?"
Calin steered the car to the side of the road and opened his door. "I don't need this, Jess," he said on jumping from the driver's seat. "I've enough on my plate trying to survive without having to worry about a hysterical woman blaming me for her every problem."
"Please don't go."
Her plea struck a chord. It was part three of the desperate man's alphabet. Aggression. Belligerence. Concession. Desperation. He climbed back into the driver's seat. "If this is going to work, Jess, you've got to give me two things, honesty and trust. I'm not the enemy. If we work together we've got a chance, if we fight, and excuse my language, we're fucked. So what's it to be, Jess?"
She offered her hand in acceptance. "I'm sorry. And I'm scared shitless. I've never seen someone die before."
"I have." The admission stunned him. While he had no specific recollection of any particular happening, he knew it to be the truth. "And believe me, Jess, you never get used to it. Maybe it's best I drop you off at a hospital. Nursing staff are experienced at dealing with traumatized patients."
"I'll be alright, Calin, I promise you."
He resumed his position behind the wheel. In one sense he wanted her to stay, loneliness wasn't a situation he wanted, especially at this time. He needed to talk. Conversation just might prompt further recollections.
"Shouldn't we be looking for someplace to eat?" she asked on seeing billboards advertising fast food outlets adjacent to the highway.
"Fancy anything in particular?" He veered onto the off ramp. Calin's eyes were more attracted to a second series of signs, advising cheap overnight accommodation. Exhaustion was, he sensed at this moment, a greater risk than malnutrition.
"Food is food." It was the response of a prisoner, of one indebted to another. Is that how she saw herself? Or were her thoughts elsewhere? Pondering escape perhaps? "Would you prefer eat-in or drive through?"
"Take out." The memory of the news broadcast on the television in the restaurant remained raw on his mind. Recognition was too much of a risk. He couldn't chance being seen. He pulled the car to the side of the road.
"What are you doing?"
"It's time you took the wheel." Calin explained why. "I'll curl up on the floor behind the driver's seat." He found a blanket on the rear seat and dragged it over him.
He heard her place the order, then heard no more. Sleep overwhelmed him.
The sound of raised voices woke him. Jess's voice was clear but she was outside the vehicle. What had happened? Realisation produced fear. She'd been pulled over by police. He experienced the same finality as a miner trapped by cave-in, there was no escape. He tried to listen. Then he waited, for the door to be thrown open.
"......there are outstanding tickets on this vehicle. Are you the owner?" Desperation swept over Calin. She couldn't talk her way out of this. He just hoped she could hold herself together. Calin contemplated an escape via the passenger side rear door. He waited.
"That's why it was so damn cheap," she countered. "I told my boyfriend it was too good to be true. Never listens to me."
"So it's not your vehicle," said the police officer.
"It's my stupid boyfriend's. He bought it three days ago from a guy he knew. I've got all the papers in the glove box."
"Can I see them?" Calin heard the door open and smiled at her cursing. She had perfected the art of the irate rant. Could she maintain the rage?
"He's as dumb as dog shit, always has been. Forever on the lookout for the cheap buy. He won't forget this, let me tell you." He heard her pause then pictured her reaching across to the glove compartment for the vehicles licencing details.
"Where are you from Miss?"
She provided her mother's address. She couldn't lie; he had her driver's licence in his hand. "I still live at home."
"Where are you heading?"
"Nowhere in particular," said Jess. "I lost my job a couple of days ago and I just needed to get away for a few days." Her composure amazed Calin. There was calmness in her tone and credibility in her explanation. "Guess this changes all that. I think I'll head straight home and talk to my boyfriend. I'll kill the bastard."
"I wouldn't do that Miss, but I'd suggest you tell him to get this matter straightened out, immediately. The penalties for not advising change of ownership can be substantial."
"What should I do if I get pulled over again?"
"Just explain the situation as you explained it to me. Have a good night, Miss and do drive carefully."
"Thank you, Officer." Calin heard her climb back behind the wheel. He relaxed, Jess had achieved the impossible. A tapping on the window reignited Calin's fear. The police officer was back, what now was the problem?
"You might need these." Calin's tension eased on understanding the police officer's words. He'd forgotten to hand back the licencing documents. What created concern however was the faltering in Jess's mumbled reply of thanks? The confidence was gone. Calin remained silent until he heard the motor cycle speed away.
| Author Notes | This again is a tad long, sorry |
By bob cullen
"You're good," said Calin emerging from beneath the blanket. "I believed you and I knew you were lying." He made no mention of her last minute loss of nerve.
"I've never been so terrified." She steered back into the traffic flow.
"Being subjected to terror is not always a bad thing, and you just proved it," said Calin as he climbed onto the front passenger's seat beside her. "I've a vague recollection of someone once telling me; 'Fear is one of life's greatest motivators, it's created more heroes than any comic book. You just have to learn how to harness that fear.'" That memory prompted another, one that cost more than three thousand innocent lives. "One only has to think back to the firemen at the Twin Towers to understand the accuracy of that statement. They charged into a burning building knowing their chances of survival were limited at best but they overcame their fear."
"Don't suppose you remember where you heard that?" she asked. "Sounds to me like something that might be taught in the military."
The suggestion had merit and was reinforced by the memory of his pursuers at the farm, Homeland Security. What had he done to warrant such animosity? Not knowing worsened his frustration. What had triggered the memory loss? Was it psychological, perhaps a mental breakdown, a head injury, or medically induced? He needed time to think, and rest.
"Jess, it's time we talked and faced reality."
"Reality." Her tone suggested she was ready to fight. "Or your version of reality?"
"Jess, do you have any idea how close you just came to twenty years in jail for murder or ten years for harbouring a fugitive? Had that police officer searched the vehicle, you'd now be in a police cell."
"Save your breathe Calin. I'll decide when it's my time to leave."
"Sometimes Jess, you only get one chance."
"And sometimes you don't get any chance. And that's precisely where I was back there. I was as good as dead until you came along." Emotion was back. She choked back her tears.
"Now's not the time to resolve this argument," said Calin on sensing her distress, her nerves were frayed. "In fact I'm not really in any fit state to discuss anything, I'm totally whacked. What I most need is a good night's sleep."
"Are you planning on doing a runner during the night?"
"I'll give you my word, it'll not be tonight."
"Can I trust you?"
"What about that place over there?" Calin pointed to a rundown twin-storied motel. Jess steered towards office reception.
"You sure have good taste," she responded. "Or is it the price, forty bucks a night."
"Can't resist a bargain," said Calin on pulling one of the hundred dollar notes he'd stolen from the home where the two women had been killed. "And with the money we save I'll buy you dinner."
"Is it safe to be seen walking around town?"
"No."
"Then why do it?"
"It's been a long time since I've taken a pretty girl to dinner."
They strolled along the street hand-in-hand. Then wined and dined in a setting that intimated more romance than fear. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Calin's every thought centred on survival, a task he considered beyond his skill. He opened his mind to a past he couldn't recall and to a future he feared he'd never see. He had to become more aware.
Jess observed but saw nothing, Calin saw but said nothing. His brain registered every detail while comparing variations in the journeys to and from motel to restaurant. The differences were subtle and insignificant, but recognisable to the trained eye. There were fewer cars parked on the street, no pedestrians and no kids congregating around someone's open garage. It appeared to be a lock-down situation, residents ordered to stay indoors. The normality of evening street sounds had been silenced, artificially. He knew instantly. They were being watched. He felt their presence.
What mistake had he made?
The young motel receptionist was a compulsive reader, books, newspapers, magazines and internet news bulletins. Two days ago she'd read of the hundred dollars notes allegedly stolen by the man named as Calin Roberts. She had recorded the missing notes' serial numbers.
On receiving the hundred dollar note from Jess, the young girl compared it to the list. A moment later she called the FBI.
"Jess, we're in trouble," he said as they walked towards the motel. "They know we're here." He recognised panic on the face of his companion. "You've got two choices, hit me with your best punch and then run like hell. Or stick with me and hope I can find a way out of this mess."
"Do you have a plan?"
"No." Fifteen seconds later Calin changed his mind, he had located their method of escape. He outlined the idea to Jess.
"You can't be serious." She shook her head in disbelief. "The car belongs to the FBI."
"That's what makes it safe. It won't be searched."
"What if someone opens the trunk?"
"It won't open, I'll disable the lock
"Will we both fit?"
"It will be cramped, but I rate survival way above comfort."
*
Fifteen hours later, the FBI team leader conceded defeat. Calin Roberts had done a Houdini; he had achieved the impossible escape. They had watched him leave the restaurant, seen him on the street then he vanished. It defied all logic yet it had happened.
How?
And how did one explain failure to their superiors? His inability to apprehend would see his performance rated accordingly, he'd be considered incompetent and be removed from the investigation. Yet, he'd done everything by the book. He'd followed procedure.
In two hours, the time span between the motel receptionist's phone call and the time of the vanishing, he had arranged his team, co-ordinated a comprehensive surveillance, ordered searches of every house and established road blocks on all outgoing roads. He'd left nothing to chance. Yet it had failed. And he alone would wear the blame.
Discomfort had extended a way beyond pain. Jess wanted to scream, every muscle in her body cramped in agony. And she needed the bathroom. How much longer could she control the urge to pee? The self-imposed silence along with the darkness and lack of movement furthered her fears. Surely arrest was preferable. She questioned the wisdom of Calin's decision.
What made it worse was watching him. His breathing was relaxed, his eyes closed, almost as if in a meditative trance. He was in control, a man accustomed to not only encountering impossible situations but to overcoming them.
"Won't be much longer," he whispered. He placed his hand on her shoulder. Neither his words nor the action comforted. She wanted physical relief, not emotional support. Jessica couldn't control a surge in anger. Nonetheless she held silent, now wasn't the time to voice her thoughts.
Less than three minutes later her anger gave way to sheer terror. She heard voices approaching, then the sound of a key inserted into the trunk. Would Calin's claim of disabling the locking mechanism hold true? She held her breath.
A crashing impact echoed throughout the trunk. In her mind Jess pictured a punch landing on the flimsy metal of the trunk's outer skin. The deafening blow triggered vastly different responses. Jess couldn't contain her shock, a plaintive cry escaped from her throat while Calin grabbed the only weapon available; the tyre lever in the inadequate tool kit. He'd not surrender without a fight.
"What fucking else can go wrong?' screamed the FBI team leader as he vented his frustration on the unresponsive lock. The trunk occupants couldn't decipher his words; they heard only the heart-stopping pounding on metal.
Around ten seconds later, to Jess and Calin it seemed much longer, they heard car doors open. A minute later they were moving, and accelerating at a frantic pace. The driver was angry; his aggression transitioned into his driving. God help anyone who stands in his path.
"Try to get some sleep," Calin's message worsened her irritation. It was all right for him. She sensed he was no stranger to fear, wasn't afraid of death. "I get the feeling this could be a rough ride."
"I need to pee."
"Well do it, Jess, let go. Pride has no place when you're dicing with death. I know, Jess, I'd rather have a pulse in my veins and pee on my pants than dry diapers and no breath." A moment later Jess surrendered her pride she then drifted into a restless sleep.
By bob cullen
Calin closed his eyes but didn't sleep. There were so many things to consider. What should he do about Jess? He experienced guilt at involving her. This was his fight, not hers. He couldn't burden her with his past. See her branded a terrorist. Calin knew what he had to do. Flee. It may well be considered cowardice, but there was no alternative. It was the one route to survival, and it was a single lane track. Jess would have to fend for herself. A thought from some deep crevice in his brain clouded the issue.
Abonalare. Abandon only as a last resort. Where had he heard that? It prompted reassessment, and another memory. Afghanistan. He couldn't recall details, but he knew he'd been there.
Logic offered three scenarios to a presence in the land of unending conflict. Was he a mercenary, a member of the military or a spy? Self-identification was no closer.
Calin dismissed all thoughts of the past; he had to deal with the present. Experience had taught there was no running away. Every adversary had to be overcome. Why had abonalare entered his thoughts as this moment? Was he finally developing a conscience? It forced a change of plan.
He sensed a decrease in speed. Were they slowing for traffic, gas, something to eat or someplace to stay? He hoped the latter. Time had lost all meaning. Calin knew they'd taken refuge in the trunk around nine last night, guessed most of this day had seen the agents canvassing for clues as to the escapees method of getaway prior to leaving as night fell.
Calin heard both doors open and close then the activating of the security mechanism. It suggested a stay longer than gas top-up. So was it a meal, a comfort stop or an overnight layover? The absence of external conversation suggested the agents had retreated indoors, but still Calin waited. Silence was no guarantee.
Fear of being seen prompted Calin's hesitancy. He freed the trunk's locking device and inched it open. His first prayer was answered, darkness had settled. He saw a number of other vehicles parked facing a motel like building. There was no one around. He reached across and woke Jess. "Time to go." Once free of the trunk Calin tried to secure it closed, unsuccessfully. His tampering had rendered the lock ineffective. One thing was certain, it would be discovered at first light, maybe eight hours away.
He assisted Jess from the trunk. After so long inactive, her legs buckled, she couldn't stand let alone walk. He half-carried and half-guided her away from the dimly lit car park. He maintained an unhurried pace. The ice cold temperature ensured they had the streets to themselves. It was going to be a long night.
When lost, retreat or circle back. Another line from his past, how did that relate to the present circumstance? And how far back should he go? Billings? Dalton? His memory went no further.
In the distance he saw smoke billowing out from a chimney stack. He sensed opportunity. With Jess now mobile they walked faster arriving just in time to observe the ebb and flow of workers signifying shift changeover. Calin paid particular attention to the late comers. He found what he wanted, a pen and a pad in one of the parked vehicles. He then wrote a note, doubled it over and placed it beneath the windshield wiper of the car parked next to the vehicle he'd selected.
"You can't be serious," said Jess as they stood beside a sleek black motorbike. "We'll freeze to death on that thing."
"My body will shield you."
"What about you?"
"I'll be fine." He wasn't interested in conversation, his thoughts were elsewhere. Would the bike owner comply with the letter's request? It was a lie, but Calin hoped it might buy him time.
'I am not a thief, just a desperate daddy. My four-year old son lives with his mum a couple of hundred miles away and has just been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer that could take him any day. I've got to get to him. I've got no money or transport so I had no way of getting there. I'm sorry. I give you a promise; I'll look after the bike and return it within three days. Please say a prayer for my boy.'
The bike was more than ten years old but it was in pristine condition, it would run like clockwork. The owner was a bike enthusiast. Regardless of circumstances, Calin feared the owner would feel no pity for anyone who stole his bike.
Dalton came into view.
As he approached the house, again from the rear, Calin stared in disbelief. There was no indication of a crime scene. It had all been a lie. Nothing had changed. The house was occupied. In fact every circumstance remained identical. The same two cars sat on the driveway. The same parents emerged from the house and the same two children headed off to school. What was going on? Who had authorised and orchestrated the lie? And why hadn't the report been corrected?
Then he saw the one change. Cameras. They had outguessed him and gambled on his return.
"What are we going to do," asked Jess. "Should I maybe check with neighbours?"
"Good thought but I think it might be easier to talk to the bedridden old lady. She's probably a whole lot closer to the truth than any of the neighbours," he replied.
"What if she's not there? Or she has protection?"
"Then I'm in trouble," Calin answered as he climbed the fence. "Wish me luck."
"Stop, Calin. I'm coming with you."
The security cameras hung from each corner of the house below the eaves. Could they be bypassed? Of course, they provided ground vision only, anything above roof level remained invisible. So he'd enter via the roof. How though did one gain access to the roof? The house was at least sixty yards from its closest boundary.
His eyes scanned the property searching for some point of access. He saw what he needed. The garage, it was close enough to the house. All he'd require was a ladder.
There was still the problem of the cameras. Any direct approach via the backyard would be detected. If he planned to keep the garage between him and the house he'd have to come in at an angle across the neighbour's property. Did they also have security surveillance? He searched and saw nothing.
Like fugitives fleeing prison they sprinted across the neighbour's yard. Fortune favoured their dash. No one was home.
The garage rear wall had one window; it was inaccessible and about fifteen feet above ground level. A basketball hoop was bolted to the wall directly beneath the window. At ten feet it too remained out of reach.
"Let me stand on your shoulders," said Jess with a not previously displayed confidence. "I'll be able to reach that."
"And then what."
"I was a college gymnast, watch and see."
Not knowing what to expect, Calin hoisted her onto his shoulders. He watched in amazement as she gripped the hoop ring and performed a perfect parallel bars handstand. With the grace developed from years of practice she lowered her legs onto the part of the ring diametrically opposite to where her hands still held firm. A moment later she was on her feet reaching upward to the window.
Calin watched as Jess lifted herself to perch on the window sill. She then eased herself through the opening and vanished like a wave on a beach. He waited for the cry of a bad landing.
A minute later she peered through the window, a beaming smile on her face. "You saw how easy that was, now do it." She dropped a coil of rope from the window. As Calin caught it, she added. "Or you can do it the hard way."
He scaled the wall with practiced ease. It was another talent from a past life.
"What's the plan now?" she asked as they stood together on the garage floor.
"We go talk to the lady."
"What if she doesn't cooperate?"
The gap between garage and house was no more than ten feet and well clear of the probing eyes of the cameras lenses. He saw an extendable ladder, the bridge between garage and house had been located. Entry to the house presented no problem. And it provided no reward. The third bedroom was empty.
Calin searched for a phone, it rested by the bed of the parent's room. He scanned through the call history and located the caller he sought, Mum. He depressed the connect button. Jess stood over his shoulder.
"Hullo." The voice was feminine, seemingly old but unfamiliar. Then Calin remembered she'd not spoken only screamed. How could one compare a scream to a softly spoken greeting?
"Where are you?" Calin asked. The line clicked dead.
By bob cullen
There was no time to panic, or re-evaluate. Reality painted a grim picture. Calin had walked into a trap. In retreating and circling back he had taken the path his adversaries had anticipated. Predictability had claimed another casualty, or two, if he included Jess.
Anger erupted within Calin; Jess was no part of this. He was the one being pursued.
"Follow me." He tried the back door, it was locked. He was back in the farmhouse, trapped, again. Twenty seconds later the lock yielded to force. As the door opened a sound far more terrifying than police sirens reverberated in the distance. Helicopters were approaching.
"We're going to have to make a run for it. Are you up for it?" She was out of the blocks like an Olympic sprinter.
Jess out sped him reaching the rear fence some seven or eight yards in front of him. They found the cover of the tree line seconds prior to the actual sighting of the aircraft. They zeroed in above the house. Six soldiers descended by rope from each chopper as they hovered about forty feet above ground level. The first six, fully armed with assault weapons charged into the house while the other group smashed their way into the garage. After dropping their troops, the two aircraft climbed to an altitude of several hundred feet and swept the area surrounding the house.
Fortune favoured Calin and Jess as the helicopters veered away from the bushland and concentrated instead on roads leading away from the house, searching no doubt for two escapees fleeing on a bike.
"What now," Jess asked as they dashed further into the bush.
"We get the hell out of here."
"Follow me," said Jess on heading deeper into the densely timbered scrub. Calin obeyed. There wasn't time to argue or question her call and she showed no intention of slowing down, or waiting. It was a case of run with me or goodbye. Did she have any idea where she was going?
Calin had always prided himself on his fitness. He trained daily. He could match the best of them on endurance running. Keeping pace with Jess though had him at full stretch. She was unbelievable. They'd run about a mile when they heard the helicopters approaching overhead. Obviously escape by bike had been ruled out. Had the bike been located?
She stopped.
"What's wrong?" asked Calin, his lungs screaming for relief
"Just getting my bearings."
"Do you know this area?"
"No, but I grew up in wooded terrain like this." The roar of a single helicopter was now directly overhead. They breathed easier as it continued on its way.
"So that makes you an expert?" It sounded much harsher than Calin intended.
"I've not walked us into a trap yet," she countered.
"I deserved that." It was as close as he could come to apology. "Tell me, Jess, what have you come up with."
"My daddy was a man of the land and he taught me many things about survival in the bush. And the thing he talked about most was the bush's need for water. 'Where there's plant life, there's water and that applies as much to the forest as it does the suburban garden.' I've never forgotten that.
"So one just has to follow the fall of the land to find the water source, and that's precisely what I was doing. He used to say H2O doesn't spell water, it spells survival. " She stopped for a moment and pointed towards the sound of the retreating aircraft, "That, however, will necessitate a change in plan. I'd bet my life, it's ferrying half of the armed soldiers to set a trap somewhere in front of us, probably near the water. And I'd suggest the remaining six are tracking us from behind, and driving us into the blazing guns of their companions."
"Are you sure you didn't go to military college?"
"No, I just read about how the Indians used to hunt buffalo by herding them towards a cliff. In their panic to escape, the terrified animals jumped to their death and the Indians feasted on buffalo meat."
"Had you been a buffalo, what would you have done?"
"Turned the attack back on the hunters," Jess replied.
"Are you suggesting we do that?"
"No, but we have to come up with the unexpected."
"Any ideas?" he asked.
"Let me ask you a question first."
"Have you been in this situation before?"
"I don't know." Anticipating his reaction she steeled her body for the pain she knew she'd experience.
"Not good enough, Calin, I saw you with the rapist," she screamed as she launched herself at him in a vicious and unexpected attack. His response didn't disappoint. The kick aimed as his groin missed by inches. He acted on instinct. He grabbed her arm and rolled. The impact with the ground winded her. She gasped for breath.
"They're coming, get out of here." There was desperation in her voice. "Leave me, Calin, I'm the surprise. You can do it." She saw hesitation in his eyes. "For fuck's sake, go man, it's your only chance."
Her tactic amazed him. Such clear thinking and decisiveness of action was the trademark of an experienced operative, not a regimented gymnast. Who was this young woman? There wasn't however time to dwell on identities, future possibilities, or to analyse. It was time to act. Jess was correct, someone was approaching. It was time to trust his inner judgement.
There was only one way to go. Unlike the herded buffalo, he adopted Jess's plan. He headed back towards the pursuers, not directly but in a wide sweeping route. He saw them; three abreast, about ten yards apart. Like the Indian hunters in Jess's story, these men weren't interested in silent chase; their actions gave rise to the belief noise was a necessary ingredient in intensifying the quarry's panic.
To Calin this signified arrogance and a lack of respect for the ability of those being pursued. Arrogance is a soldier's greatest liability. Never go into battle believing you're invincible, rather, go into battle and prove it. The thought came from a past he could no longer recall.
From being pursued, Calin became the pursuer. He remained a couple of hundred yards behind the trio. As they drew closer to where Jess waited, he decreased the distance between himself and them. Absolute stealth saw the gap reduced to thirty yards as they approached the point where Jess sat.
Jess heard the rustle of undergrowth moments before they burst from the bush. She lay flat on the ground. Fear overwhelmed her. Where was Calin?
Jess feigned unconsciousness but maintained a minimal line of vision through squinted eyes. She watched two of the soldiers run towards her, the third soldier held back. Jess closed her eyes and waited.
Calin observed. The separation bothered him, had it been planned? Or was it a tactical error. He thought not, he'd neither seen nor heard any form of communication. It was tardiness, this soldier was tired, his concentration wavering.
Doubt came with the memory. The distance between him and the soldier was about the same as the distance between him and the rapist. A soldier wouldn't miss at this range. If only he was ten yards closer. He needed some form of distraction.
Jess's scream stunned everyone. The two soldiers closest to her threw themselves either side of Jess, their weapons aimed squarely at her head. The third soldier fell to his knees and took a position behind a tree. That gun also pointed towards the source of the scream. In his concentrated focus the soldier neither saw nor heard the swift movement behind him.
Calin hit the soldier with every ounce of energy he possessed. Muhammad Ali couldn't have landed a better punch. Instant shock confronted Calin, the knocked-out soldier was female, a female paratrooper. Recognition followed, her face was familiar but he couldn't source a name. Or for that matter any memory of where he had seen her.
After securing the young woman with restraints found in her knapsack, Calin turned his attention to the two soldiers now back on their feet and standing over Jess. "Drop 'em, or die," he called.
They neither acknowledged nor responded to Calin's instruction. "Time's ticking, boys, try anything and you're dead. At this range I won't miss.
"You've got three seconds. One. Two." The weapons were surrendered. "Grab the guns, Jess, and get over here." She didn't require a second invitation.
"On the ground, guys, and face down."
Calin grabbed more rope from the female soldier's kit. The complex knots came so easily. Without a knife no one would untie these ropes.
While Jess stood guard over the second soldier, Calin walked the other soldier over to the tree line. Once there he secured him to a tree. He repeated the process with the second soldier.
Prior to hoisting the still unconscious woman over his shoulder, he searched her pockets and backpack for some form of identification. There was none. A search of her companions yielded similar results. In fact they carried no documentation at all.
Something about the female soldier aroused vague recollection. They had, he felt certain, crossed paths somewhere. He needed to talk with her, but not here. She would, he hoped, provide some knowledge on his past. She may even provide salvation.
By bob cullen
There was no time to panic, or re-evaluate. Reality painted a grim picture. Calin had walked into a trap. In retreating and circling back he had taken the path his adversaries had anticipated. Predictability had claimed another casualty, or two, if he included Jess.
Anger erupted within Calin; Jess was no part of this. He was the one being pursued.
"Follow me." He tried the back door, it was locked. He was back in the farmhouse, trapped, again. Twenty seconds later the lock yielded to force. As the door opened a sound far more terrifying than police sirens reverberated in the distance. Helicopters were approaching.
"We're going to have to make a run for it. Are you up for it?" She was out of the blocks like an Olympic sprinter.
Jess out sped him reaching the rear fence some seven or eight yards in front of him. They found the cover of the tree line seconds prior to the actual sighting of the aircraft. They zeroed in above the house. Six soldiers descended by rope from each chopper as they hovered about forty feet above ground level. The first six, fully armed with assault weapons charged into the house while the other group smashed their way into the garage. After dropping their troops, the two aircraft climbed to an altitude of several hundred feet and swept the area surrounding the house.
Fortune favoured Calin and Jess as the helicopters veered away from the bushland and concentrated instead on roads leading away from the house, searching no doubt for two escapees fleeing on a bike.
"What now," Jess asked as they dashed further into the bush.
"We get the hell out of here."
"Follow me," said Jess on heading deeper into the densely timbered scrub. Calin obeyed. There wasn't time to argue or question her call and she showed no intention of slowing down, or waiting. It was a case of run with me or goodbye. Did she have any idea where she was going?
Calin had always prided himself on his fitness. He trained daily. He could match the best of them on endurance running. Keeping pace with Jess though had him at full stretch. She was unbelievable. They'd run about a mile when they heard the helicopters approaching overhead. Obviously escape by bike had been ruled out. Had the bike been located?
She stopped.
"What's wrong?" asked Calin, his lungs screaming for relief
"Just getting my bearings."
"Do you know this area?"
"No, but I grew up in wooded terrain like this." The roar of a single helicopter was now directly overhead. They breathed easier as it continued on its way.
"So that makes you an expert?" It sounded much harsher than Calin intended.
"I've not walked us into a trap yet," she countered.
"I deserved that." It was as close as he could come to apology. "Tell me, Jess, what have you come up with."
"My daddy was a man of the land and he taught me many things about survival in the bush. And the thing he talked about most was the bush's need for water. 'Where there's plant life, there's water and that applies as much to the forest as it does the suburban garden.' I've never forgotten that.
"So one just has to follow the fall of the land to find the water source, and that's precisely what I was doing. He used to say H2O doesn't spell water, it spells survival. " She stopped for a moment and pointed towards the sound of the retreating aircraft, "That, however, will necessitate a change in plan. I'd bet my life, it's ferrying half of the armed soldiers to set a trap somewhere in front of us, probably near the water. And I'd suggest the remaining six are tracking us from behind, and driving us into the blazing guns of their companions."
"Are you sure you didn't go to military college?"
"No, I just read about how the Indians used to hunt buffalo by herding them towards a cliff. In their panic to escape, the terrified animals jumped to their death and the Indians feasted on buffalo meat."
"Had you been a buffalo, what would you have done?"
"Turned the attack back on the hunters," Jess replied.
"Are you suggesting we do that?"
"No, but we have to come up with the unexpected."
"Any ideas?" he asked.
"Let me ask you a question first."
"Have you been in this situation before?"
"I don't know." Anticipating his reaction she steeled her body for the pain she knew she'd experience.
"Not good enough, Calin, I saw you with the rapist," she screamed as she launched herself at him in a vicious and unexpected attack. His response didn't disappoint. The kick aimed as his groin missed by inches. He acted on instinct. He grabbed her arm and rolled. The impact with the ground winded her. She gasped for breath.
"They're coming, get out of here." There was desperation in her voice. "Leave me, Calin, I'm the surprise. You can do it." She saw hesitation in his eyes. "For fuck's sake, go man, it's your only chance."
Her tactic amazed him. Such clear thinking and decisiveness of action was the trademark of an experienced operative, not a regimented gymnast. Who was this young woman? There wasn't however time to dwell on identities, future possibilities, or to analyse. It was time to act. Jess was correct, someone was approaching. It was time to trust his inner judgement.
There was only one way to go. Unlike the herded buffalo, he adopted Jess's plan. He headed back towards the pursuers, not directly but in a wide sweeping route. He saw them; three abreast, about ten yards apart. Like the Indian hunters in Jess's story, these men weren't interested in silent chase; their actions gave rise to the belief noise was a necessary ingredient in intensifying the quarry's panic.
To Calin this signified arrogance and a lack of respect for the ability of those being pursued. Arrogance is a soldier's greatest liability. Never go into battle believing you're invincible, rather, go into battle and prove it. The thought came from a past he could no longer recall.
From being pursued, Calin became the pursuer. He remained a couple of hundred yards behind the trio. As they drew closer to where Jess waited, he decreased the distance between himself and them. Absolute stealth saw the gap reduced to thirty yards as they approached the point where Jess sat.
Jess heard the rustle of undergrowth moments before they burst from the bush. She lay flat on the ground. Fear overwhelmed her. Where was Calin?
Jess feigned unconsciousness but maintained a minimal line of vision through squinted eyes. She watched two of the soldiers run towards her, the third soldier held back. Jess closed her eyes and waited.
Calin observed. The separation bothered him, had it been planned? Or was it a tactical error. He thought not, he'd neither seen nor heard any form of communication. It was tardiness, this soldier was tired, his concentration wavering.
Doubt came with the memory. The distance between him and the soldier was about the same as the distance between him and the rapist. A soldier wouldn't miss at this range. If only he was ten yards closer. He needed some form of distraction.
Jess's scream stunned everyone. The two soldiers closest to her threw themselves either side of Jess, their weapons aimed squarely at her head. The third soldier fell to his knees and took a position behind a tree. That gun also pointed towards the source of the scream. In his concentrated focus the soldier neither saw nor heard the swift movement behind him.
Calin hit the soldier with every ounce of energy he possessed. Muhammad Ali couldn't have landed a better punch. Instant shock confronted Calin, the knocked-out soldier was female, a female paratrooper. Recognition followed, her face was familiar but he couldn't source a name. Or for that matter any memory of where he had seen her.
After securing the young woman with restraints found in her knapsack, Calin turned his attention to the two soldiers now back on their feet and standing over Jess. "Drop 'em, or die," he called.
They neither acknowledged nor responded to Calin's instruction. "Time's ticking, boys, try anything and you're dead. At this range I won't miss.
"You've got three seconds. One. Two." The weapons were surrendered. "Grab the guns, Jess, and get over here." She didn't require a second invitation.
"On the ground, guys, and face down."
Calin grabbed more rope from the female soldier's kit. The complex knots came so easily. Without a knife no one would untie these ropes.
While Jess stood guard over the second soldier, Calin walked the other soldier over to the tree line. Once there he secured him to a tree. He repeated the process with the second soldier.
Prior to hoisting the still unconscious woman over his shoulder, he searched her pockets and backpack for some form of identification. There was none. A search of her companions yielded similar results. In fact they carried no documentation at all.
Something about the female soldier aroused vague recollection. They had, he felt certain, crossed paths somewhere. He needed to talk with her, but not here. She would, he hoped, provide some knowledge on his past. She may even provide salvation.
By bob cullen
Progress was slow and fear of apprehension ever present. They had to get away from here, far away. The minute the tree-huggers were discovered, the place would be swarming with soldiers. Time was the enemy. At best, Calin figured they had two, maybe three hours start.
Forty minutes into the journey, he felt a stirring from the body slung over his shoulder. He laid her on the ground while Jess placed a gag in her mouth. The last thing they needed was a scream for help.
Her eyes opened. They were bloodshot and vacant, clouded with fear and still attempting to focus. Calin suspected concussion. He saw no value in interrogation. There were however a couple of questions he had to have answered.
"Soldier, I'm not going to hurt you, but I need you to tell me a couple of things. If you're honest with me I'll let you go free. But first, I warn you, if you attempt to scream for help, I'll have to hit you again. Do you understand? Nod your head for yes." She obeyed.
"Who am I?" Jess removed the gag to allow the restrained soldier to respond to Calin's question.
"According to our orders your name is Calin Roberts." Her knowledge of that name confirmed Calin's suspicions, he had been set up. The question was, why?
"What am I supposed to have done?"
"I don't know. We don't question orders, we just follow them."
"Who issued the orders?"
"The Base Commander, I think the order came from Washington" she said. Her answer appeared credible. Instinct told Calin no Base Commander possessed the authority to issue a termination order. It had come from someone far higher up the command ladder.
"Give me a name."
"Alex Bryant." The soldier's anger peaked. What was it about the name Bryant that triggered such animosity?
"You're lying." With that he had Jess reinsert the gag. He then removed the restraints around her ankles. Calin then assisted her to her feet and said. "A word of warning, when you deal with the devil, you invariably finish in hell. So watch your back, they can't be trusted. And they kill to ensure their secrets remain secure."
She stood still pleading it seemed for a further easing of her restraints.
"Would you have released me?" asked Calin. For a brief instant he saw hate in her eyes. Again she was military, and he was her enemy. Given opportunity she would kill him without hesitation. "Go, before I change my mind," he said.
She half-walked and half-jogged back towards where she'd been taken prisoner. Once she disappeared, Jess and Calin hoisted their newly acquired weapons and military knapsacks and maintained their escape in the opposite direction. Night was fast descending. Darkness would assist in their escape.
"Why did you let her go?"
"What would you have done?"
Running without the balancing support of her arms proved difficult. In striving for more speed she twice lost her footing, finishing face down on the ground. She rolled onto her back, rose to a kneeling position then finally stood. She'd learned a lesson; speed was no longer an option. She'd also experienced some good fortune; the gag had worked itself free.
As darkness closed in, her inbuilt radar faulted. She was, she sensed, close to where she and her companions had been ambushed, but in these conditions she could pass within yards of the location and miss it.
A dense cloud cover hid the stars, Nature's compass points were no longer visible and the weather worsened. What to do? Going forward risked the likelihood of becoming lost while remaining here left her vulnerable to the nasties of the night. With no arms she had no way of fighting off any foe.
Fuck you, Alexis Bryant, why didn't you confront the bastard? Her father was dead, killed by a cowardly assassin, a bullet to the back of the head. And the assassin had been identified, Calin Roberts. A man she and her father knew by another name. One thing now motivated her, revenge.
Military logic imposed the decision. She would wait out the night. Within fifteen seconds that decision was overturned. The silence of the night was shattered, firstly by a one word scream "No." She recognised the voice of one of her colleagues. Seconds later a short burst of rapid fire machine gun thundered through the forest. The young female soldier sought protection behind the nearest tree. It wasn't, she knew, the weapon of a redneck deer hunter. It was a military weapon. The precise make of weapon that had been stolen from her and her two companions. Could the one known as Calin have circled back and executed her fellow soldiers? The answer was yes. They wouldn't have been the first colleagues he'd killed. One question arose, why hadn't he killed them earlier? Coming back made no sense.
She waited, her mind painting a hundred different scenarios. Should she investigate? Was it wiser to wait until morning? Fear sided with procrastination while courage argued for immediate intervention. A murder scene was at its most revealing in the minutes following the killing. Tomorrow morning may well be too late.
Was she walking into a trap? More than fifteen minutes had elapsed since the shootings. It was now or never. And the cloud cover had lifted allowing the moon to make an appearance. There was now a semblance of light.
She thought back to the words Calin had expressed prior to her release....'they kill to ensure their secrets remain secure.'
In contrast she then reflected on this mission, on her colleagues and the duty they had been tasked with, the apprehension of a mentally unstable and rogue operative. Did he in any way appear unstable or behave in an unpredictable manner? Had he displayed violent tendencies? Sure he had no memory, a fact she had substantiated in using the name Bryant, a name that should have but didn't provoke recognition. Could amnesia eliminate one personality and create a new one?
On that basis she proceeded with infinite care. Nothing made sense. Who could be trusted? One fact remained, two women had been killed in Dalton and he was the last one to see them alive. Fingerprints proved he had been in the house. That was history, she now surveyed the present.
The scene displayed no professionalism, bodies tied with their backs to a tree with arms fully extended behind them. Both bodies had suffered extensive wounds. A career assassin didn't kill this way, a spray of bullets to the head and chest. Professionals prided themselves on the single shot or the double tap. This was frenzied pig shooting. It was a staged set-up, the killer long gone.
What should she do? Would reporting back to her superiors see her vindicated? Or executed? Trust was now a foreign language. Who then could offer assistance? In desperation she looked to her dead colleagues. For the first time since being assigned to the mission she felt hope. One wore a holstered knife on his belt. In her trussed up state could she free the clip that secured the knife?
The holster remained just beyond the manageable reach of her tied hands. While she could touch it, she couldn't employ sufficient leverage to release it. The one result of her many attempts was a tightening of the knot, circulation would soon slow the blood flow. Next she tried using her teeth, firstly to bite through the leather and then to free the clip. Neither achieved the desired result. She did however manage to snap her front tooth. In angered frustration she lashed out at the tree trunk with her foot. Again the devil triumphed; an unseen half-inch thick branch remnant snagged her lower leg causing a steady flow of blood. The twig snapped free of its parenting tree.
An idea formed. Then she saw the infestation, a colony of termites had established their home on the foot-long twig. The thought of moments earlier to use it surrendered in the face of the insects. A glance at her bleeding leg revealed the full extent of the injury, it was far worse than it first seemed. Now there was no option. She kneeled down and lowered her face to where the twig lay. She took it between her teeth.
Her tongue felt the slithering feel of the insects, she almost gagged, her every instinct was to spit it out. With an enforced control she didn't know she possessed she endeavoured to wedge the twig into the leather loop housing the metal stud. Success came at the third attempt. She used her tongue and teeth to force the snuggest possible fit.
With the twig in place she released it, leaned away from the dead man's hip and threw up. The sight of insect infested vomit induced further heaving. There wasn't time for this so she again reached for the twig and tweaked it from side to side. Nothing. She tried again and felt something yield. The clip held firm but the leather frayed. Her teeth attacked the weakened cowhide with the ferocity of a shark on a doomed dolphin. Her tenacity was rewarded the knife now free of its restraint.
Once more she used her mouth. She wrapped her lips and then her teeth around the knife handle, it slipped free of the holster and fell to the ground. She grasped it with both hands and drove it into the ground leaving about four inches of blade exposed. The bleeding on the leg showed no sign of abating.
She seated herself on the ground and backed up to the knife edge. With an urgency born of desperation she worked the rope up and down against the blade. Her hands were again independent. On closer inspection she saw considerable swelling and discolouration, they needed attention. The ropes still around the individual wrists required loosening. She'd only severed the rope link bonding the two wrists as one. But first, she had to tend to the leg. She needed a bandage. If only she had one of the knapsacks? In its absence she surveyed the scene. The dead soldier again came to the rescue. She tore the legs of his trousers. Then she used the knife to cut the material into strips. She had her bandage, but would it work? The bleeding slowed and then stopped. It was now time to free the wrists.
On the completion of that task, the female soldier stopped. She could delay her decision no longer. Should she report back for duty? Or flee? The argument against the first option was now dead, minus the legs of his uniform and tied to a tree. The argument against the alternative was desertion, a charge ensuring long-term imprisonment.
If she fled, where could she go? Would anyone believe her? Then a third irrational option came to mind. She turned and again ran back into the night.
By bob cullen
Jess led the way. The flow of the river could now be heard and the aroma of wood fires filled the air. The affluent life style of country living had encroached on this sleepy hamlet. Jess felt her navigational assumption had been vindicated.
She had located two of the three ingredients for a successful escape, the river and a boat. But it would have to wait, sunrise was fast approaching. Darkness was the third requirement. They backtracked well away from the prying eyes of civilisation and the sensitive noses of dogs.
"So what now?" asked Calin on seating himself in the midst of a colony of massive boulders, the last remaining remnants of a probable volcanic eruption eons previously. They had come upon the spot by accident. The forest both surrounded and protected the site. More importantly it concealed it from view. Calin sensed it had served as a place of spiritual significance to many tribes through history.
"How does breakfast sound?"
"What's on offer?"
"The usual, McDonald's, KFC, Hungry Jack's," she answered.
"I'll have one of each," Calin said. "I take it they do home delivery."
"I'm going into town. No one knows what I look like."
"True, but they just might know what those hundred dollar notes look like."
"Jesus, I'd forgotten all about that," she replied. "I guess that means its CKC."
"What's that?"
"Catch, kill and cook."
"So go hunting, Jess."
"Why me?"
"Your idea and you know the bush."
"You have an answer for everything, so maybe it's time I really tested you."
"What's on your mind, Jess?" He sensed a change in tack, frivolity was over.
"That young soldier, she looked at you as if she knew you. Were you in the Military?"
"I've already conceded that was probable, those guns sure had a familiar feel about them. What are you getting at, Jess."
"When she identified the Base Commander as Alex Bryant, your eyes reacted. How did you know she was lying?"
"Gut instinct, maybe I just saw it in her eyes. I don't know."
"Could that be your real name?"
"Jesus, Jess, leave it alone. I don't fucking know who I am." His voice had taken on a new intensity, frustration had taken control.
"But I do." The unseen voice triggered an immediate response. Calin grabbed Jess and the weapons and took cover behind rocks. Hundreds of thoughts invaded his brain. Ramp, a memory from the past, claimed top priority. Ramp, Realistic Assessment of Mission Performance, demanded answers. Where had he failed? Could the operation be salvaged? Calin locked into concentration, the soldier again in control.
The voice held the key. It was strained and guttural, in all probability disguised. Was it his pursuers, lead perhaps by Alexis? Or was it Alexis flying solo? Instinct banked on the latter. No experienced leader would have risked disclosing his position. Termination was the goal, not arrest. Assassination squads arrived in silence, killed and departed. Alexis however wanted answers, about her father. Answers Calin didn't have.
Calin searched but saw no one. How did one defend against the invisible? You can't shoot what you can't see. He needed to pinpoint her location. "Alexis," he called. There was no response.
"Talk to me, Alexis. And give me my name" It was the demand of one in control, not one under attack.
"Tyler Spellman." The look of abject failure surrendered in the face of discovery. A winning lotto ticket couldn't have triggered greater joy. Or greater fear. He now had a name but still no real memory.
"Alex Bryant was your father." It was a statement, not a question. "And you're Alexis." That was a blind assumption. He experienced optimism for the first time since awaking on the farm. A number of snippets from his past had emerged in the last half-minute; he'd recalled Ramp and the girl's name. Further details though remained unknown. Could this girl assist in the unlocking of his memory?
Doubt, his cynical companion, searched for a trap. Could Alexis see them?
Was she really Alexis Bryant? If only he could picture her, not as the soldier he'd knocked unconscious but as someone he'd known previously. Retrieval from the brain's photographic library wasn't yet available; that storage disk had been compromised.
"Show yourself, Lex," Calin called, somewhat surprised at how easily the abbreviated name flowed from his mouth. How well did he know the girl? There was no response. Had she managed to rearm herself? One way to find out.
"Jess," he whispered. "Looks like I'm going to have to find her. Find somewhere else to hide and stay down" Jess moved with her usual speed. Calin waited until she disappeared from view. The mind games had begun.
"Tell me." It was the demand of one in control, not one under attack.
"Tyler Spellman." The look of abject failure surrendered in the face of discovery. A winning lotto ticket couldn't have triggered greater joy. Or greater fear. He now had a name but still no memory. The voice though now had an identity; it was the woman he'd released some hours ago.
"Alex Bryant was your father," challengd Calin. It was a statement, not a question. "And you're Alexis." That was a blind assumption. He experienced optimism for the first time since awaking on the farm. Two snippets from his past had emerged in the last half-minute; he'd recalled combat training and the girl's name. Further details though remained unknown. Could this girl assist in the unlocking of his memory?
Doubt, his cynical companion, searched for the trap. Was she alone? She had to be. Had she had help, Calin sensed both he and Jess would already be dead.
Was she really Alexis Bryant? If only he could picture her, not as the soldier he'd knocked unconscious but as someone he'd known previously. Retrieval from the brain's photographic library wasn't yet available; that storage disk had been compromised.
"Show yourself, Lex," Calin called, somewhat surprised at how easily the abbreviated name flowed from his mouth. How well did he know the girl? There was no response. Had she managed to rearm herself? One way to find out.
"Take cover behind the rocks," he whispered to Jess. She moved with her usual speed, Calin, in an endeavour to split the target sought a different rock. Still, absolute silence, the mind games had begun.
He signaled his intent to Jess. He was going in search of Alexis.
Jess watched him slip away. She felt no fear. Reality was as it was. Death from a bullet was preferable to what she had escaped, a rapist's violence. Not that she wanted to die, Jess now accepted the inevitable. Death was more than probability. She and Calin were up against a very powerful and unforgiving adversary.
Again she wondered. What had he done to warrant such animosity? Could the young woman named Alexis really shed light on his circumstances? Or was she simply the bait to draw him into the open?
She never heard a sound. Before she could react she found herself face down in the dirt, someone's knees on her back and her arms pinned. She had no idea from where the attacker had come. It was over in seconds. She thought about calling for help but decided against it.
What would Calin do in this situation? He'd remain calm, assess what had taken place, weigh up his options, seek a diversion and finally respond. Was she capable of doing a Calin?
In the same way she imposed absolute control prior to a gymnastic performance, Jess focused her concentration on what had to be done. Anything less than flawless represented failure. She might get only one chance. She would have to be prepared.
She had dozed off, perhaps for no more than thirty seconds and left herself vulnerable to attack. Mistake. What could be drawn from that? The attacker was watching, and close. As no weapon had been produced, Jess assumed her attacker was unarmed, alone and adept in hand-to-hand combat. Were they the skills of a woman? Probably not your average woman, but Alexis was an elite soldier.
Next Jess recalled the actual attack. What stood out most were the knees on the back, there was no real weight and they were located close together. And there was no real violence, pure precision. The probability of Alexis increased.
Now for the diversion, Jess hoped the person on her back knew nothing of reptiles or this locality.
"Snake," she screamed. Jess felt the shift in weight on her back, she was scanning the surrounds. Jess knew it was her chance. All the years of weight training and strength work was about to be put to the test. Her timing was precise, Alexis, or whoever it was on Jess's back was, like a jockey who's lost a stirrup, unbalanced. She went flying when Jess twisted and bucked her body.
Jess was first onto her feet.
"Alexis, I hope," Jess said as she backed well away and pointed the weapon at the young soldier.
"And you are?"
"Jess," her tone was sharp. "I'm not real good with these things," she continued as she waved the gun, "but Calin tells me it's easy. All you have to do is aim and hold your finger on this thing." Her finger hovered near the trigger. Jess saw no reason to tell the truth, Calin had in fact given her a detailed lesson in handling weapons.
"Maybe you should put it down."
"Not at the moment, it's rather a comforting feeling holding it. Now, Alexis, or do you prefer Lex." Jess found it difficult to contain her antagonism. She wasn't keen on the thought of Calin and Lex having shared some form of close relationship.
"Don't call me, Lex." Anger had returned. "My father was the only one allowed to use that name." Jess sensed a whole lot left unsaid.
"Did Calin know your father?"
"Not as Calin Roberts, but he knew him as Tyler. Then the bastard killed him."
"Can you prove that?"
"He arranged a meeting with my father and my father never came home. That's all the proof I need. My father's body was found two days later and by then Calin had vanished."
Jess hadn't witnessed anger like this since her schooldays. And in that instance too, it had been revenge motivated. A classmate, a girl had humiliated an emotionally handicapped boy by calling him 'retard.' The boy responded by picking up a loose brick and smashing into her skull. The girl died in hospital.
"How long ago was that?" Jess knew she had to calm Alexis. Blind rage was an impediment to logical behaviour.
"About two months ago."
"Where did the meeting take place? And who arranged it?"
"It was scheduled for Langley, but according to their records no such meeting was ever sanctioned. But that contradicts my father's own words. Before he left the base he told me he was meeting with Calin Roberts. And surprise, surprise, no one in Washington now knows anything about a Calin Roberts."
"In the interest of justice, don't you think you should talk to Calin prior to making any judgement? Surely he is entitled to provide his version of events?"
"Where did the name Calin come from?" asked Alexis. Her superiors, in issuing the orders to apprehend had used the same name.
"I was hoping you might be able to answer that. It was on one of the documents he found in his possession when he came to in the farmhouse."
"What farmhouse?" Jess went back and told the story from the beginning.
"So how did you two meet?" Once more Jess provided a history. Just as she finished telling, Calin re-emerged.
By bob cullen
"Alexis, I've listened to what you've said and I've no recollection of any meeting with your father, ever. Remembering what happened two days ago is beyond me, let alone something that's supposed to have taken place two months ago. My memory doesn't exist. It's as if my brain has been wiped clean. Everything, other than the past three days is blank. I don't know where I've been or what I've done. I don't even know who I am. Is Tyler Spellman my real name?"
"What would be achieved by lying?" snapped Alexis.
"It will bury the truth that much deeper."
"What then is the truth?" Alexis challenged.
"I was hoping you might tell me that. And might I suggest you start by providing the reason I'm being pursued. What the hell have I done?"
"I only know what we were told. It's alleged you went rogue on your last mission, killed a colleague and then disappeared off the radar."
"What was that mission?" Calin persisted with his questions.
"They didn't provide us with that detail."
"Who issued the orders?"
"Guys in suits, but they were backed up by uniforms littered with stars."
"FBI?"
"Don't think so. Fibbies are generally up front with their ID's. One of my colleagues suggested Homeland Security." There was that name again.
"I don't remember that name, who are Homeland Security?"
"Homeland Security was created after 9/11 and its prime role is protecting the Nation against terrorism."
"So they are another one of the Pentagon's assassin squads." He was stunned by his own words. How did he know of the existence of such bodies? He couldn't recall names but he sensed certainty in the thought. Was Alexander an employee of one of these agencies? Or was the name Alexander another deception. Designed perhaps to trigger association with Alex Bryant? But what was the connection?
"Who's to say you're not employed by one of them?" The question from Alexis suggested neither her anger nor her distrust had been pacified.
"Were that the case, Alexis, you'd now be dead. Assassins don't take prisoners, they leave dead bodies."
"And they don't go to the aid of women being raped," added Jess.
"I understand your hate for me," said Calin. "And it may well be justified, but there are some questions about your father that need to be asked?"
"I'll answer your questions when you answer mine."
"Fire away soldier, I've got nothing to hide," Calin replied.
"Does the name Marvin Trent mean anything to you?" Calin shook his head.
"Should it? Who is he?"
"Not is, was," Alexis replied. "He was a five-star in a senior administrative role in the Pentagon who was gunned down in a restaurant five nights ago, a couple of nights before you resurfaced in that farmhouse. By the way, the dead guy found in that house with you has been identified, although that information is presently being withheld. His name was Lieutenant Pattison Walford, a personal assistant to General Marvin Trent. Do you see the connection now?"
"That wasn't the name he carried on his ID."
"He was undercover and on assignment," she answered.
"Where is all of this leading, Lex?"
"Are you ready for this?"
"Ready as I'll ever be."
"My father was investigating rumours surrounding alleged illegal activities going back many years involving General Marvin Trent."
"Let's stop there for a minute, Lex," said Calin. "I need to get my head around all of this. Correct me if I'm wrong." He paused to realign his thoughts. "You believe I killed Trent, Walford and your father. What facts do you base this on?"
"You were the last man to see my father alive. You now admit you were present at the scene where Walford's body was found and you have no alibi as to your whereabouts at the time of Trent's death. Your only defence is amnesia. I would suggest it's an open and shut case."
"I can't prove where I was when your colleagues were executed," said Calin. "Do you want to add them to the list? I have admitted tying them to the tree where you found them dead."
"You say they were alive," she argued. "I can't attest to that, you had knocked me unconscious. All I know is they are now dead."
"In the case of the two soldiers, I was there. I'll provide an eye witness account," challenged Jess. "
"The evidence of accessories carries little credibility."
"Alexis, when I was a kid, someone, and I can't remember who, once said, 'bigotry and belief can never be companions, the first blinds to truth while the second closes the mind to reality.' So, if that's where you are, maybe it is better you go." Calin felt no anger, in fact, he understood. She loved her father and she blamed him for his death.
"Thought you had no memory."
"Why don't you fuck off," said Jess, her anger about to explode. She was on her feet and standing over Alexis, prepared and ready it seemed to convert her rage into a more physical form. "We don't need you. Go back where you came from and tell whoever is running this game we're not coming in."
"It's not a game, girly."
"Stop, both of you." 'The surest way to lose in battle; is to be divided within.' Another dictum retrieved from the training manual. Calin now stood between the two adversaries. Calin turned to Alexis.
"Lex, is this how your father would have behaved," asked Calin. "Or expect you to behave? I don't think so. Before he made any decision he analysed every available fact."
"The only fact I need to know concerns my father, he's dead." The anger of Jess had found an accomplice in Alexis.
"Jess is right, Alexis, you are free to go. But where can you go? Who can you trust? Your colleagues or me, think about it, Lex. I let you go free. They had orders to kill you."
"You don't know that."
"Why did you come to us last night? Didn't you trust them?"
She offered no response.
"Lex, if I was the killer I'm alleged to be, would I have released you? There is only one answer to that; I'm not a cold blooded killer. I didn't kill your colleagues or the Lieutenant. I don't know about your father or Trent. I only hope when my memory returns, if it returns, I'll be able to prove my innocence in both cases. All I now ask is you trust me.
By bob cullen
With less than a year to retirement, General Marvin Trent had ensured a healthy nest egg above and beyond the military pension. Invested in a tax-free off-shore haven, it returned a most lucrative income each year. He was financially secure for life.
Over the years Trent had established a thriving business. There was no shortage of buyers and no accountability. There was over supply and no stocktaking. Every incoming flight brought new equipment and every day saw something vanish. And Trent alone saw the staggering growth in his retirement fund. A Blackhawk helicopter disappeared. The official report stated it was lost in battle. A number of trucks ferrying weapons were alleged victims of hijack and a dozen tanks just disappeared. This theft was also attributed to Taliban supporters present within the Afghan military.
One day in Washington Trent met a man who changed his life forever. The man, a business associate of an ambitious and up and coming Senator, promised untold opportunity and riches in return for financial support of the man being fast tracked for the Presidency. Trent accepted. He provided whatever his new employer requested: weaponry, assassins and planning.
*
"Meet me at nine." Trent recognised the businessman's voice. Though long since returned from the warzone, Trent still acted in his procurement role. He understood the significance of the message. The man was in urgent need of equipment. Another bonus was in the offing, another contribution to his retirement fund. Life was so good.
Unlike active soldiers, the General had long ago forfeited the instinctive perceptions of his surrounds. Wealth may have afforded many luxuries but it blunted the factors that alerted to danger. Battle hardiness had yielded to the easy buck. His wealth grew but his vision failed.
He approached the normal meeting point, surprised to see the restaurant in darkness. He tried the door, it pushed open. He strode to the unoccupied bar and poured a drink, a drink he'd never taste. Trent turned in time to see his soon-to-be killer. He recognised him. They had met once before. The name Calin Roberts was badged on the front of the man's uniform. His reputation spoke for itself.
It was the same face he'd seen many times in the sporting pages of newspapers. He had graduated from tennis ace to master assassin. Calin Roberts was one of the few men Trent ever truly feared. Realisation came too late, his judgement had been correct. The General died before he could speak.
The killer turned and walked away.
Three months earlier, the same assassin had accepted another retainer, from the man he'd just killed. A wry smile etched onto his face as he reflected on that meeting and the Judas-like relationship between employer and assassin, a contractor one day and a victim the next. Both instructions though had required authorisation from above. In the world of the assassin betrayal was a way of life. The most recent appointee to the role of Calin Roberts wondered if that was the fate that would one day confront him.
'Will I too one day become a liability to someone's future advancement?'
Perhaps it was time to get out, time to forge a new identity. It wasn't too late to attempt a tennis comeback.
Calin reflected on the mission of three months earlier, it had been his first homeland mission as Calin. The meeting with Trent had not been pleasant. He left with misgivings. Dealing with this man was a challenge. He was both dangerous and ambitious. He couldn't be trusted and he had powerful friends.
"Why do you need me?" the killer asked. "Aren't your own boys good enough?"
"Sometimes it's necessary to distinguish between the personal and the professional. And this is one of those occasions. If however, you feel this task is beyond you," the General baited. "I can name you two other intelligence agencies who are more than willing to undertake our work."
"Who and when?" asked the man donning the Calin Roberts uniform for the first time. In the lead up to this meeting, Calin had been advised of Trent's ego
"Alex Bryant is his name and as close to yesterday as possible is the preferred time."
"Urgency costs." It was a non-negotiable demand.
"If it's completed within twenty four hours, I'll double your normal fee."
"It will be done." The killer lived up to his dual claims. Alex Bryant was dead within twelve hours.
*
Night came and they moved towards the river. During the day Calin had undertaken reconnaissance, he'd sighted a boat he considered ideal for their purposes. Observation though was a long way from possession. From a distance one couldn't see the vessels' security devices, nor could they read the fuel gauge. There were so many unknowns and so few alternatives
He slipped into the river a quarter mile from where the boat sat. It was moored to a buoy mid-stream.
The water temperature was near freezing. Calin realized swimming wasn't possible, the body wouldn't survive six minutes in water that cold. Another method of access would have to be found. Jess saw it.
"What about that river swing," asked Jess? She pointed to a huge tyre that hung about fifteen feet out and around six feet above the water from a thick tree branch about thirty yards downstream from where they sat. "Doubt it will be missed any time soon."
"How do we get it down?" asked Calin?
"Get me a knife," Jess replied. "Then come with me." Calin followed without question. Was he about to witness another gymnastic routine? Alexis tagged along without comment.
"Makes you believe in evolution," said Alexis as she watched Jess scale the tree and then ease out along the branch supporting the swing. Calin ignored the sarcasm. He watched in awe at the incredible balance and sure footedness. Jess lowered herself down the rope and eased herself onto a seat on the tyre's inner surface. She then started to swing, skilfully increasing the swing arc.
"Get ready to grab the tyre on the next swing," she called.
"You seem to be having so much fun," replied Alexis. That comment snapped Calin back to reality. Alexis had no intention of playing second fiddle to any rope-swinging, baton-twirling cheer leader.
It was much larger that he'd estimated, about fifty feet in length he guessed, a fibre glass hull, superbly appointed and powerful. It was sheer luxury. It more than lived up to its name, Sea Princess. Calin eased himself onto the deck, expecting to hear the ear-piercing scream of an alarm. Silence ensued. Next he watched for some activity from one of the riverside homes. Nothing, the night remained undisturbed.
Less than a minute later, Calin switched to panic mode. Night turned into day as massive floodlighting lit up the rear garden and jetty on one of the more palatial homes. Calin watched as a figure emerged from the house. He was running towards an inflatable tied to a jetty. The man appeared to be armed, agitated and in a hurry.
Calin waited until the inflatable was moving, then he lowered himself back onto the tyre he had secured to the vessel's starboard side. All he could do was wait, and hope. The air at water level so damn cold.
The dinghy thumped into the Sea Princess's rear. The passenger tied it to the bollard then clambered aboard. The obvious became apparent, he wasn't looking for intruders, his search was more urgent. It was the desperation of an addict. Calin recognised the symptom; he'd seen soldiers in battle cursed with the same drug reliance.
He listened to the man's agitation. He was screaming into a phone. "It's gone, where did you leave it?" A plan formed. The on-board voice grew more hostile. "The fucking canister's gone too."
Calin manoeuvred the tyre to where the dinghy was tied. He then freed the tyre and pushed it hard towards the mid-stream current. He watched it float down river. Prior to freeing the inflatable from the bollard Calin considered his options. Should he take out the searching passenger or just attempt the escape, he opted for the latter. He released the inflatable and pushed free. He steered with the inflatable's paddle, progress was slow. The one searching the luxurious fifty-foot boat; was slower. Calin manoeuvred the inflatable towards the shore.
An angry cry of "Fuck,' startled Calin. The tone and volume shattered the silence of the night. The source of the sound became apparent, the passenger aboard the Sea Princess had discovered his transport back to shore was missing. Gunshots followed. The neighbourhood came to life, lights, both inside and outside the homes. The midstream boat too was now bathed in light, it's passenger on the deck waving wildly to anyone on shore.
Calin cursed, the invisibility of night had been extinguished. Escape had become much more difficult. The place would soon be swamped by police. How long did they have?
Logic forced a reassessment. It was evening, bureaucratic cost cutting had seen night staffing levels reduced; response time would be slow. Perhaps they had fifteen minutes, maybe more. Calin estimated the inflatable had a speed of around twelve knots. A quarter hour could place them three miles downstream, well clear of this location. That just might be enough.
| Author Notes | Sorry for the delay in posting, my twin brother has been in need of help this past week |
By bob cullen
They worked in silence, Jess carrying the weapons while Alexis loaded the backpacks. Calin studied them intently, not as women but as potential allies. Alexis was a soldier, trained and adept in battle, Jess on the other hand was an athlete, blessed with speed, agility and physical strength. Jess's medical knowledge provided another bonus. Conversely, he wondered, how would she perform in the pressure of a shoot-out?
He knew they'd not survive as a trio; animosity between them was nearing explosion, a choice had to be made. Who was the better equipped for what lay ahead, Jess or Alexis? Decision time was fast approaching. Should loyalty to Jess override the soldiering skills of Alexis, skills that may well ensure survival? Reality promoted Alexis, conscience however sided with Jess. It was a case of self-interest opposed to debt owed.
Calin steered to the far side of the river, there were fewer houses, and it was less affected by current. He maintained a steady speed upstream as the girls kept a vigilant lookout for submerged and surface obstacles.
"Why are we going against the current?" demanded Alexis. "Surely common sense suggests it would be wiser to take advantage of the river flow?"
"Alexis, you're right. And that I believe is the thinking that will be employed by our pursuers. Their search will be centred downstream. Furthermore, Jess and I agreed...."
"It's not just you and Jess, anymore. I too deserve the right for input."
"I'll start considering your opinion when, and if you lose your attitude. Remember, Alexis, you came to us."
"Fuck you too." Could her anger be harnessed, an ill-disciplined soldier was a liability.
"Alexis, listen to me." Calin wondered if he was wasting his breath. "Believe it or not, we both share the same goal. You want to see your father's killer exposed and I want to be absolved of that crime. It's in both our interests to work together." Sensitivity, a trait unknown to Calin prior to meeting Jess, reared its head. How was this conversation impacting on Jess? Calin didn't dare a glance in her direction. The truth couldn't be denied. He required the assistance of Alexis. His eyes were riveted on the one he was addressing.
"And your father holds the key to everything. We need to discover who was responsible for organising the investigation into Trent. And more importantly, we have to find out who killed Trent; and Walford too for that matter."
"How do you propose to do that?"
"With your help," said Calin. In uttering those three words, Calin arrived at his decision. Alexis could provide information Jess couldn't. She could help him locate his past.
Conversation ceased, the silence suited Calin. It allowed him time to dwell on and justify his decision. The fuel supply lasted a little over three hours. Time enough for Calin to arrive at a conclusion, he'd tell Jess in the morning.
An hour after midnight, they were again on foot. The inflatable now submerged midstream on the river bed, hopefully never to be found.
"We need to get some sleep," he announced as they trekked along a path adjacent to the river. They were heading back in the direction they had come. They'd passed beneath a six lane bridge a short distance back, it would, Calin hoped, provide some indication of their whereabouts.
Jess sensed Calin's dilemma. He'd grown quiet and pensive. She'd not seen him like this before. Several times while on lookout duty for river snags, she'd glanced around and recognised a troubled and faraway look on his face. Jess felt a degree of guilt. Was the combative aggression between her and Alexis a contributing cause to his distress?
She listened to the exchange between Calin and Alexis. She found the attitude of Alexis offensive; Calin was correct, Alexis did come to them. His next statement; 'your father holds the key,' imposed the harsh reality of fact. Only one person had knowledge of her father, knowledge that could well shed light on Calin's past, Alexis herself. That ensured Alexis was irreplaceable. Then the knife found her heart, 'with your help.'
Just like the doctor who had seen her suspended from the hospital, Jess knew Calin was making a mistake. Alexis couldn't be trusted. Nonetheless Jess accepted the voice of authority; the decision was out of her hands. She was merely the one being dismissed. When would he tell her? Morning, perhaps, impulsiveness demanded her response. She'd disappear during the night.
Calin's suggestion to sleep provided the opportunity. She watched as fatigue took hold. Alexis was the first to drift off, Calin followed. Jess waited.
Around two she rose and vanished into the night.
Anger intensified with every step, it was directed at Calin. What an ungrateful bastard, she'd tended to his injuries, assisted in his escape from the Dalton home and now been cast off. Logic interrupted her thoughts. He'd saved her life. Without Calin, she'd be dead. Perhaps she needed to reassess.
He was fighting for his life. In choosing Alexis over her, he was possibly saving her a second time. Nonetheless she experienced the ego destroying pain of dismissal. Obstinacy reared its' irrational head. Surely, it was her life, if she chose to risk it, the decision rested with her. What right did Calin have to tell her what to do? Time alone allowed her to rationalise. Running achieved nothing, she owed Calin an explanation. She turned around.
They were gone.
| Author Notes | Finally a posting under a thousand words |
By bob cullen
What to do? Once more she employed the thought process she'd used before. What would Calin do? Jess checked her watch, 4.13. At most they had two hours start. Jess glanced around, she sensed something was wrong. If only she had a torch. Darkness limited her vision to around fifteen feet. Could she afford to wait until daylight?
Urgency told her to hurry, instinct slowed her down. She obeyed the second impulse, it rewarded with discovery. A glance up and down the river revealed nothing. There was no sign of footprints or indication of things being dragged towards the water. She hadn't jettisoned the weapons or equipment. Next Jess headed away from the river. She found what she wanted, two weapons and the backpacks. Panic swamped her. The discovery lead to only one conclusion, Calin was no longer in control.
She searched for evidence to verify that thought. She found it where Calin had laid. Her worst suspicions were confirmed. A significant pool of blood lay next to where his head had been. Had the blood flow halted? How much had he lost? One point was obvious, he'd be moving slowly.
Would Alexis have adhered to the plans they'd outlined prior to boarding the inflatable? Jess banked on that. Alexis was, Jess felt certain, a doer, not a planner. What though was her intent? Did she plan on handing Calin over to the military authorities? Hadn't she listened to Calin? This wasn't a military exercise; it was a major Pentagon cover-up. There would be neither survivors nor heroes, especially anyone with knowledge of Marvin Trent.
Jess set off at full pace, she'd travelled no more than a couple of hundred yards when she saw him, collapsed on the path beside the river. Was he dead? Where was Alexis? Was it a trap?
Thoughts of her own welfare yielded to Calin's need. His appearance terrified her. Even in the dark she could see his skin had lost its colour. The bleeding continued, his pulse was weak and he drifted in and out of consciousness. He was dying.
She knew she couldn't move him and she had to halt the bleeding. Why hadn't she brought one of the back packs with her? She needed a bandage, something to stop the bleeding. Despite the cold, she removed her top and held it against the head wound. She shivered and his eyes opened. A weak smile appeared.
"Get out of here, Jess," he struggled with his words. "It's over."
"Not quitting on me, are you?"
"Save yourself, Jess. I can't walk."
"You don't have to walk, Calin, just float. We're going swimming; the current's going to take us downstream."
"Do you have any idea how cold that water is?"
"Cold's better than dead," she countered. She helped him to his feet.
"Are you sure about this?" he asked.
"Never been less certain of anything in my life," she replied. On that note she dropped into the river. Her entire body trembled on experiencing the shock of the water temperature. She questioned the wisdom of the idea. How long could the body endure this torment? She hoped to get at least a quarter mile downstream.
"Are you coming?" she called.
"Jesus," he said on feeling the biting chill. "I hope you know what you're doing."
"Just relax, enjoy the cold and float. I'll provide the momentum."
The water temperature won, the swim lasted less than a hundred yards. Back on land they retraced their steps to where they'd taken rest in the early hours of the morning. Calin's rate of recovery amazed Jess, twenty minutes earlier he was near death now he was walking unaided.
She recovered the military backpack that had been carried by Alexis and extracted the emergency medical kit. It was minimal, a few bandages, antiseptic creams and tiny implements, scissors, tweezers and needles. Jess applied a liberal quantity of the cream to Calin's head injury then bandaged it. What would she do if infection set in?
"What happened?" asked Jess as she completed the task.
"Why did you leave?"
"Why did you choose her over me?" she challenged. Jess made no attempt to conceal her anger. "And don't lie."
"An error of judgement, I was wrong."
"Why?" His refusal to apologise irritated her further.
The question, or was it the display of emotion, triggered another partial memory, a long forgotten argument with a woman. Who was she? Closing his eyes he saw an outline, she was naked, but he couldn't see her face. In his mind though he heard tears and the single word, 'why' rebounding in his head. Had he betrayed her too?
"Jess." He was talking to no one. In anger she had walked away.
Calin knew the futility of arguing with an aggrieved woman. She wouldn't listen, nor would she understand. It wasn't a matter of personal preference; it was a case of necessity. He was searching for his past, and Alexis, and her father, were perhaps a part of that past. Maybe she had the tools necessary to rebuild his 'memory.'
But now that hope too had vanished. How, and where then could he locate information on Tyler Spellman? Or on Alex Bryant? Not forgetting Marvin Trent.
"What happened?" It wasn't a question, it was a demand. She had turned back to him. Calin was stunned to see tears in her eyes.
"I'm not good at apology, Jess," he said. "And I'm even worse at admitting failure, but I'm guilty of both. I'm sorry."
"You could be dead."
"Maybe, it's what I deserve."
"Is all this self-pitying your way of making me feel sorry for you?" Her face almost broke into a smile. "Or are you trying to avoid my question?"
"Where do you want me to start? The reason why I chose Alexis? Or how she surprised me?"
"Explaining how such a small woman overpowered you might be a little tough on the ego."
"Maybe I'm getting old and need more sleep. Last night I just zonked out, the lack of sleep over the past few days caught up with me. I didn't hear you leave and I didn't hear or sense Alexis standing over me. When her presence finally hit me, it was too late; the rifle butt was on a collision course with my head. I went from semi-conscious to unconscious in an instant. When I came around, the other end of the gun was pointing at my head.
"She hadn't tried to stop the bleeding and I knew I'd lost a lot of blood, I had no energy and had trouble standing up and even more trouble trying to walk. I felt my life was slowly slipping away. But she wouldn't let me rest, just kept pushing me forward. Finally my legs gave way and I collapsed where you found me."
"Do you have any idea where she was heading?"
"I'd guess the police. I doubt she'd want to again risk linking with her military colleagues."
"Would I be overstepping the mark to ask why you chose Alexis?"
"Last night while coming up stream, I attempted to weigh up the merits of both you and Alexis. I thought I was being both logical and fair. In hindsight I now know I allowed a degree of bias to impede upon my judgement."
"What bias?"
"She knew my past; your knowledge of me goes back less than two weeks."
"May I challenge that point? Does she know your past or is she just repeating the manufactured version supplied by those who created Calin Roberts' past?"
"What are you implying?" he asked.
"Trust only what you know and see yourself. My Nanna used to say; 'it's better to be a doubting Thomas than a gullible fool.'
"Sounds like she was a wise woman," said Calin.
"She also said, 'never finish a conversation without getting your question answered.'"
"Jess, I've never been one for self-analysis, I do what I have to and never consider the consequences and effects on others." Realisation attacked his inner core; life was much simpler without a conscience. "Till now that has always worked, but you've changed all that. I'm not a team player, never have been. I use people to further my agenda. And that's precisely what I did last night when I chose Alexis over you.
"There is no defending what I did, it was all about me. I believed Alexis' knowledge of my past offered me the best chance of finding out who I really was. And that's all I cared about. I totally disregarded the assistance you've provided and the risks you've taken. I'm sorry, Jess.
"And, you know the worst thing; I experienced no guilt until I saw your tears. I'm sorry."
"It's not too late to change sides, you know?" He didn't understand her smile. Was it the smirk of victory? Or was it the forgiveness of a friend? "But I think we should get moving, we've wasted enough time talking.
By bob cullen
"Any ideas as to where we should start?" Jess continued as they resumed their trek. The walking path, now a little hillier, was wide enough to allow them to walk side by side.
"I would suggest Washington is the most obvious place for answers, but it also poses the greatest danger. There are cameras on every corner, more police officers and federal agents than any other city in the entire country and lastly, I suspect, I'll be recognised there. And, let's not forget, my only known link to my past, Alexander, is also there."
"But you don't know who he is. Wouldn't going after Trent make more sense?"
"Dead men don't talk."
"Sometimes they leave a trail."
"More often they lead to a trap. My instinct tells me to go with Alexander."
"If you don't know where he is, or what he looks like, how will you find him?" Jess persisted. Her tenacity was admirable, but infuriating. She had no idea of the gravity of their situation. These people practiced neither decency nor morality. They killed anyone who challenged their rule.
"He'll find me."
"He'll kill you." Jess stopped walking. He read her mind. And her eyes were readying for a fight. She had to understand this was his world, a world of deceit and treachery.
"Only if I'm foolish enough to let him get that close," said Calin.
"Won't you need to talk to him?" she asked.
"No way, the first rendezvous is purely reconnaissance, an exercise in discovering just who is in the enemy camp."
"Something tells me you've done this before."
"It's possibly why I'm still alive."
"When and where do you plan to schedule this confrontation?"
"Someplace that's crowded with thousands of visitors, maybe the Lincoln Memorial. As for the timing, yesterday would have been ideal. We can't afford to allow them too much time to prepare."
"They'll swarm the place with agents."
"That's what I'm banking on. I hope to see a familiar face, one I recognise and one that triggers a memory." She stared at him in disbelief.
"There's another problem too, you know."
"My dear, Jess, what's a day without a challenge." His face broke into a smile. "What now?"
"We're almost two thousand miles from DC, we've run out of money and we have no transport. And we're being hunted by every law enforcement officer in the land."
"Perhaps it's time I made a phone call."
"We don't have a phone either."
*
"Why are we going this way?" asked Jess as Calin headed upstream. "The bridge we passed under last night was back the other way."
"Sometimes, Jess, I find it's best to just follow your instincts. Then you try to anticipate how your opponent will respond. It's a bit like a game of poker, you bluff and you gamble, never really knowing the other side's strength."
"Surely, there's more to it than just guesswork?"
"There is," conceded Calin. "I don't know how to define it. You just know. But sometimes you're wrong. Alexis was a case in point."
"How did she deceive you?"
"She didn't, I deluded myself. In my desperation to discover my real identity, I disregarded years of training and damn near got myself killed," Calin answered. "I believed she really intended to help."
"Don't be so hard on yourself, Calin. We all stuff up occasionally."
"I was trained to ...." Memory halted his flow of words. He was in a classroom. It was a lecture on how to mount a successful escape. The lecture was titled: Fapatee, the three steps of escape.
Fapatee was an acronym for firstly assess, plan, analyse then execute escape. What had prompted this recollection? Was his memory coming back?
"Are you alright, Calin?" she asked as the silence extended beyond a minute. "You've gone very quiet."
"Sorry, Jess, just had another flashback, one that might actually assist us."
"Tell me." Calin condensed Fapatee into a ninety second summary. "How does that help us?"
"I applied fapatee to our situation. It doesn't take a genius to assess our dilemma, it's beyond hopeless. We're broke, we're trapped and we're fast running out of opportunity. Analysis highlighted our needs. We have to get to Washington, we have to locate some link to Trent and we have to remain invisible. In other words we're in need of miracles. Have I filled you with hope yet?"
"I'm still listening."
"The final part of fapatee deals with escape. At this point, that's the easy part. I have no doubt we can get away from here, but where do we go? Our pursuers will never stop looking. Death alone will satisfy their requirements."
"Stop it, Calin, you're filling me with hope." For the first time in a while, her face brightened into a smile.
"Let's face it, Jess. I should already be dead. We both should be. But there's something inside me, maybe it's instinct or perhaps I'm a pre-programmed robot. It's insane. But, I fear, it's true. Look at what I've survived in the past couple of days, a shoot-out, a bail-out from a speeding truck and a confrontation with an armed rapist. I've broken into houses, stolen money, phones and vehicles. And let's not forget eluded and overcome Alexis and her specialist Military colleagues. I've skills no law-abiding citizen possesses. I'm a killer and a thief. And most importantly, I've undertaken extensive training that's ensured I know someone of importance."
"You don't have to convince me, Calin; I've been there and seen most of it. Are you trying to impress me?" Her smile eased the tension. "So what does the insane pre-programmed robot have in mind?"
"A journey to Washington," he answered.
"Would you care to elaborate on your travel plans, Mr Roberts?"
"A few minutes ago, Jess, you asked why we're heading upstream. At the time I said instinct, I think I can now expand on that. Yes, it was instinctive, but it was an ingrained response, a decision based on the years of training I spoke about. In hindsight, it probably wasn't training. It was brainwashing. It was as simple as that. They cleared my brain of its old habits and replaced it with new logic. Just like the erasing of a computer's hard drive."
"You always take this long to get to the point?"
"I thought blondes were slow on the uptake." He easily evaded the punch she threw.
"What's going upstream got to do with getting to Washington?"
"It's a combination of geography and climate, Jess. First, its winter, second, we're in Montana and third, most mountains around these parts have abundant coverings of snow."
"None of that gets us closer to DC."
"True, but hopefully it will lead us to a small community which in turn may provide us with opportunity and a means of transport." Calin paused, everything hinged on one assumption; the neighbourhood he'd find would be predominantly farming, with the occasional weekender rather than a commercial skiing resort.
"Jess, it is going to be a long, hard walk and it will get even colder. Are you up to it?"
"Try and stop me." Her ability to overcome physical pain and exhaustion was, he sensed, a product of the many years intensive gym work. It served to minimise the effects of the hunger they now experienced. More than twelve hours had passed since she had found him semi-conscious. In that time he had observed her intently. She was super competitive, he liked that. She'd never allow him to outlast her.
Not even the sub-freezing temperature affected her. Like him, her clothing offered little warmth. They weren't dressed for wintery conditions. The wind added to the chill factor. In silence they soldiered on.
By bob cullen
The river weaved a path towards the summit. Within the hour he knew darkness would descend. The higher they climbed the icier the water became. As they cleared the tree line, an iced layer had settled atop the river flow. Snow covered everything in sight and a wind gusted at a sub-freezing temperature.
In the distance he saw what he had hoped to see, residential life. Two of the three houses visible had smoke billowing from chimneys. The third and the most distant, flaunted the excessiveness of extreme wealth. Designed in the style of a Swiss chalet, its three levels dwarfed the other homes. Prior to retreating back into the tree line to escape the worst of the wind, Calin intently studied the smokeless house. Porch lights were aglow as were lights above the barn doors. His eyes swept towards the large warehouse-like structure behind the house. What vehicles were garaged inside? Did it also house the power generator?
Several things stood out, the house was new and maintained. Access to both the Chalet's front door and to the barn had been cleared of snow, as was the roadway linking the three homes. Did that suggest live-in staff, or maybe a contractor service? A larger than normal television dish stared at the stars.
"Ready, Jess?" asked Calin on completing his surveillance.
"Want me to lead?"
"Not this time."
"House or barn?" questioned Jess.
"Don't know yet, depends on whether the alarm's powered by battery or generator."
"How will you establish that?"
"Good question."
"What happens if someone's inside?"
"Another good question," said Calin. "Guess we'll face that when and if it happens. Back to your previous question, the disarming of the alarm has to be first. So it's the front door."
"Let's go then," said Jess as she dashed out from the tree line. Four steps later she had, like a car bogged in swampy terrain found her momentum stopped as she sank to her knees in powdery snow.
With the forty yard trudge from the shelter of the trees to the road accomplished, Calin broke into a three-quarter pace gallop. The crispness of the air bit into his lungs while the pangs of hunger along with the effects of his head injury reduced his energy levels. Determination and fear combined to drive him onward.
"You going to knock first?" asked Jess as they approached the front door.
"You are. I'm going to take a look around." On that note, he disappeared down the side of the house. The first sound Calin heard was the muted humming of the generator. It came from the large outbuilding.
Jess tried the doorbell three times. She heard it echo through the house. There was no response; the house remained in total silence. Where was Calin? She was about to go in search of him when she heard footsteps approaching the door. Fear took hold, how could she explain her presence?
"No one here," said Calin as he swung the door open. "And amazingly there's no alarm. So why don't you come on in, young lady. It's so much warmer in here.
I intend to take a quick look around."
"I'm coming with you." They walked through the most amazing bar Calin had ever seen. It led to the kitchen and provided the first bonus, a fully stocked refrigerator and pantry. Upstairs offered an even greater surprise, a massive bedroom with ensuite, a supersized spa and a walk-in robe filled with racks of designer winter clothing. Jess turned the taps on full. With the delight of a three-year-old at her first party, Jess watched as steam vapour engulfed the room.
"I'll get you a coffee and something to eat," said Calin as he left her to luxuriate in her new-found heaven. He headed back downstairs; he sensed he'd missed some detail. He saw it immediately, a scrawled note positioned on a tray beneath a half-filled brandy decanter:
'The place is all yours, Senator.
The bar's stocked, the fridge is filled
Every bed is available
And the girls arrive at five
ENJOY
Now you owe me'
A
Calin looked at the clock mounted on the wall, 19.00 hours. That suggested twenty two hours before the arrival of the 'girls.' Was the Senator alone, or accompanied by guests? And when would he arrive? Should he tell Jess of the note? He decided against it. On return to the bedroom, with a tray of the Senator's seafood, he found Jess asleep in the spa. He lifted her from the tub, wrapped a towel around her and placed her beneath the blankets of the bed intended for the elected representative. Rather than wasting the energising effect of the bath, Calin stripped and eased himself into the water. He placed the coffee and seafood within reach.
Sleep overwhelmed him.
His inbuilt radar woke him. Someone else was in the bathroom. His eyes opened to see Jess, still wrapped in her towel leaning over him.
"Where's my coffee?" she asked as she reached across for the half empty cup beside the untouched basket of seafood. Instead of answering he dragged her into the now cold tub.
"Bast..." His lips silenced her abuse.
For the second time in eight hours he carried her to the bed, on this occasion without the towel. Minutes turned into hours and sleep overpowered them.
"Jess, wake up, we've got to get out of here." A glance at the bedside clock indicated they had slept ten hours. For the first time in days, Calin felt energised. In the distance he heard the familiar thumping of a helicopter. It had to be the Senator.
"What's wrong?"
"We're about to have visitors." He then told her of the message he'd found.
"What's the plan?"
"You distract him, I'll disable him."
"How?" she asked. She listened to Calin's suggestion. There was no time to argue.
"Tell him, you're the appetiser," suggested Calin. "Maybe you could suggest a massage first. Get him naked and lying face down on the bed and then I'll take over."
"What if he's not alone?"
"We're in trouble."
They heard the aircraft land, disembark its passenger and quickly take off. Calin recorded the chopper's ID.
The Senator was alone. Jess stood in the archway to the bar. Ready to greet him she carried a tray with a half filled champagne flute and an almost filled bottle of Dom Perignon. The evening dress she wore left little to the imagination, sheer and see through, she wore nothing beneath.
"I've been instructed to entertain you until the others arrive." The Senator's eyes feasted on her breasts. "It was suggested you might need a massage to relax you after the flight. Perhaps we could adjourn to the maid's quarters. I'm assured there are some rather erotic pleasures to be enjoyed there. But drink up first." He gulped down the glass she offered. It required no skill to read his mind; he was salivating on what he believed lay ahead.
"Might I suggest a game," Jess continued as she poured him a second glass. "The other girls tell me play acting really boosts the pleasure. You're going to be a fifteen year old virgin and I'll be the crusty old seductress headmistress. Does that sound like fun?" His eyes provided the answer, lust now raging out of control.
"Have another glass, Senator. You need to relax. Let's get started then. Follow me." Jess walked the way she'd seen models strut on the fashion catwalks.
The Senator obeyed her every instruction. He stripped naked, lay face down on the bed and waited. Her next words thrilled him. "I'm about to climb on your back. Are you ready?" Calin noted the change in the Senator's posture. His muscles had drawn tense, he was preparing to roll his body the instant he felt her weight. Time to up the ante, thought Calin.
"Move and you're dead." Calin recognised the prisoner's symptoms: fear had paralysed him. The masculine voice had stunned him, as had the additional weight. He was powerless to respond. "I'm not what you expected," said Calin.
"Give me your hand," Jess demanded. She slipped a noose around his wrist then stretched the rope to its maximum extent and tied the rope's other end to the bedpost. She repeated this three times, the other hand and both feet until all movement was restricted. The man was a prisoner, a prisoner to his own lust.
"Don't leave me like this." The man widely regarded as one of the four most powerful men in the entire country, was reduced to begging.
"Who do you want me to call?" said Calin. "You've got one lifeline. Maybe your wife?"
"You won't get away with this."
"I'm afraid we already have."
Calin emptied the Senator's wallet and took his phone. He had one more call to make. He recalled the reporter's name he'd seen delivering the story accusing him of the death and rape of the two Dalton women, Rachel Costello. The young reporter was about to score her second scoop within a week.
He and Jess walked out of the maid's quarters with one of their three problems solved. The contents of the Senator's wallet, forty two hundred dollars eased their monetary problem. They headed upstairs to change into more appropriate dress.
Calin next turned his attention to escape. He hoped whatever was parked in the garage would satisfy their transport needs. It did, fifteen minutes later they headed south in a near new BMW four wheel drive. Prior to vacating the garage, Calin swapped the BMW's plates with those of a two door Lexus.
By bob cullen
He handed Jess the phone. "You know what to say."
"What was his name again?" she smiled as she glanced at the piece of paper she held. It contained the location of the chalet. The GPS had provided the precise coordinates along with the name of the road.
"I'm calling on behalf of Senator Cameron McIntosh," Jess said on hearing the reporter identify herself. "As you know, Senator McIntosh serves on several of the more sensitive committees involving National Security and Intelligence." It was a statement neither Calin nor Jess could verify. They both hoped the young reporter's knowledge of the Senator's duties were as lacking in detail as their own. They had employed another line Calin's memory had just recalled. 'A claim delivered with certainty creates its own credibility.'
"In this capacity he has uncovered new documentation surrounding the man known as Calin Roberts." The trap had been set; a name familiar to the reporter had been the bait. There was no challenge.
"Perhaps Rachel, you should call the Senator's office to confirm his cell phone details." Jess then provided the number. "You can never be too cautious."
"Where did he get my name? And why did he choose me?"
"Allow me to give you the honest answer. Mind you, should I ever be questioned in regard to this comment, I will deny I ever said it." She was adhering to the script they had rehearsed.
"Most of the 'name' reporters have oversized egos; they believe they are the story. This arrogance irks Senator McIntosh; he believes the story is important, not the story teller. And he wants the people of America to know the truth in this instance. Calin Roberts is a myth, the creation of a department head in one of the many clandestine security organisations housed in the Pentagon.
"Do you want to call me back, Rachel?" The question was Calin's idea. He wanted a direct contact number to the journalist.
"No." Jess smiled at the enthusiasm of the youth. "Just tell me, where and when?"
"You'll need a helicopter and a cameraman. And most importantly, be exactly on time, 4.45 this afternoon, Senator McIntosh is a stickler for punctuality. Good luck, Rachel." Jess read from the note. "Before you go, Rachel....." It was too late, the reporter had disconnected.
"What do we do with this?" Jess asked on holding up the phone.
"We'll keep it. I expect we'll get a call sometime around 5.15 from either a very grateful Rachel or from one very pissed-off and disgraced Senator. I really look forward to that conversation."
"Why are you doing this, Calin? What has Senator McIntosh got to do with Calin Roberts?" Jess asked.
"Nothing, at least nothing I'm aware of. Jess, this is not about McIntosh, it's more a case of establishing a line of credit with the reporter."
"Why?" she asked. "What can she do to assist us?"
"She will become our mouthpiece."
"What if she refuses?"
"She won't."
"How can you be so sure?"
"She craves recognition and success and Calin Roberts offers that precise opportunity to Rachel Costello. I am her path to fame."
"Perhaps her highway to hell is more appropriate," Jess challenged. "Do you intend to warn her of the dangers she will encounter? Or are you too obsessed with self?"
Stung by her outburst, Calin examined his motives. Would he really sacrifice someone else's life to ensure his own survival? Was he no better than those pursuing him? Conscience was a liability he had never had to answer to. Jess though had brought change, He couldn't dismiss her angered response.
'Don't justify, just do.' Another snippet emerged. If only he could recall the entire context of the phrase? In total contrast to the four words, Calin now needed to validate his action.
"Think back, Jess. Did I have self on my mind when I went to your aid?"
"I don't know anymore." She started to cry. Calin recognised the symptom, battle fatigue. She'd seen too much action, insufficient time to think, seen the enemy grow stronger and surrendered all hope of achieving victory. Fear had eroded all belief in survival.
"Hang tough, Jess," said Calin as he veered onto the first off-ramp. "We've got this far and we're not finished yet. And remember, Calin Roberts doesn't give up."
In the distance, he saw a small strip mall. A large advertising banner advised of an array of food outlets. Two things caught his eye, the car park had ample parking available and there were a number of young men standing around three vehicles at the far end of the parking lot. For sale signs were attached to the front windows.
"Let's eat first, and then talk. Believe it or not, Jess, I've got another plan." It had formed the instant he'd seen the makeshift cars sales lot.
"Is leaving the keys in the ignition a part of your plan?" Her face almost broke into a smile as they strolled towards a pizza parlour.
"Actually, it is." The partial smile gave way to disbelief. "I think it's time we upgraded the Beemer."
Calin requested a table by the window; he wanted to watch the thieves in action. He needed to identify the group's weakest link. They kept glancing at the BMW and talking excitedly among themselves. It appeared they lacked the courage to take the final step. Finally one approached the vehicle. He peered through the window and then offered the thumbs up to his friends. After a moment's hesitation, they walked and half ran prior to opening the doors. One remained by the cars for sale.
The driver couldn't contain himself. The tyres squealed as he sped out of the car park and headed away from the interstate.
"Why didn't you do something?" demanded Jess. "What are we going to do for transport now?"
"I'm about to pick up my new vehicle now," Calin replied. "Would you care to join me?" She followed him to where the young car salesman stood alone. The look on his face conveyed fear. Calin knew he'd found the junior partner.
"Just nod your head and agree with whatever I say," he whispered to Jess.
"Your friends have just stolen my vehicle," said Calin in a voice laced with authority. "Perhaps I should warn you, it's not really mine, it belongs to Senator Cameron McIntosh and is equipped with all forms of surveillance and GPS global tracking devices. The instant I lodge details of the theft its location will be pinpointed to within fifteen feet of its exact whereabouts. The cameras crafted into the upholstery will positively identify your friends and I'd suggest you'll all do time in prison." Calin watched as terror swept over the salesman. He was, Calin guessed no more than eighteen.
"I am, however prepared to make a deal. I'll allow you to warn your companions on two conditions. First, you give me the choice of these cars here, at no cost. And second, and I'm only telling you this 'cause I too was once young and stupid, your friends had better fire the vehicle as extreme heat is the only way of destroying the camera's evidence.
"Do you want to deal, or do I call the cops, now?" Calin pulled the phone from his pocket.
"Don't call." There was absolute panic in the voice. "Take whichever one you want."
"Which one would you recommend?"
"The red Camry."
"I'll take it. And one other thing, son. I'll be needing your phone also, and the keys to the other vehicles."
"How do I warn my friends?" Panic had yielded to desperation. The salesman had his hands behind his back. Like a coiled cobra he was poised to strike. Calin knew what to expect. He'd faced death many times before.
The attack lacked subtlety. The knife came with a rush. Calin swayed out of its path, grabbed the attacker's arm and threw him to the ground, disarming him in the process. "Were this a street fight, kid, you'd now be dead. Take a word of advice from someone who knows. Get away from those other thugs and build yourself a life.
"Now give me your phone. Better still, sell it to me. Here's two hundred bucks, take it." Calin released his grip on the boy. With Usain Bolt like speed he jumped to his feet and fled.
Calin swapped the Camry's plates with another vehicle bearing Canadian licence plates.
By bob cullen
"You're a man of surprises, aren't you," said Jess as they drove out of the lot. "Why did you give him money?"
"To get him away from here," Calin answered. "I'm hoping he uses the money to buy drugs, get bombed and forgets he ever met us. As for his mates, I believe they'll strip the BMW for parts, sell them and party on the proceeds."
"Clever," she smiled. "So in removing the witnesses and the beemer, you've eliminated all evidence of our presence here. You are one deceitful bastard, Calin Roberts. How do you come up with these strategies?"
"Experience, and the desire to remain alive, ensures you develop an ability to read and anticipate your opponent's thoughts."
"Don't you tire of living on the knife's edge? Knowing you're always just one slip from death?"
"No one is guaranteed a tomorrow, especially in my world." For the first time in a long time, Calin sensed the futility in what he'd just said. Was this perhaps his way of preparing himself for the inevitable?
"I wonder how Rachel's meeting went with the Senator," Jess asked
"Perhaps it's time to contact her."
"We can't, we don't have her number."
"Maybe it's time we called her employer." Jess dialed the number.
The reporter saw the massive home in the distance. It appeared out of place in this sparsely populated farming community. Why hadn't she checked out the property's owner? Did it perhaps belong to the Senator? As the aircraft drew nearer, she stared in astonishment. It was simply amazing, a European palace set in the non-productive winter landscape of Montana. A billionaire's place of play perhaps. What secrets would she find here?
Rachel rode in the 'copter's rear seat, it was so damn cold. The cameraman insisted on shooting through an open window. 'Less distortion and clearer image,' he argued.
The female pilot set down on the large snow-covered landing pad. Rachel and Todd, the cameraman alighted. The pilot remained in the aircraft. Rachel knocked on the door, no response. Fear and doubt intensified. Had she been set-up? Rachel tried the door. It pushed open. She glanced inside and saw nothing. Should she venture inside? What if it were a crime scene?
Todd took charge and barged in. Still hesitant, she followed. The entry foyer was excessive, more in keeping with a luxury hotel lobby than a private residence. The decor and furnishings furthered the impression. The word opulence took on new meaning. As the camera rolled detail, Rachel called out. "Senator McIntosh."
"Help." Distress was obvious and the voice weak.
The single word was insufficient to determine his actual whereabouts. It could have come from any direction. Was it on this level, or upstairs? The vaguely familiar voice confirmed the presence of another occupant.
Where should they start? A large sitting room come library, sat off to the right with a single door exit in the far corner. An enlarged replica of an old sail ship cabin occupied the space opposite the library. It was the bar. On one wall the elaborate display of a sail boat's riggings featured. In much the same way a lawyer studies a contract's fine print, the camera lens absorbed the exquisite detail and design.
"Over here." Todd pointed in a direction through the bar. He led the way, passing through the kitchen. He watched as Rachel scooped up a message left on a counter top. She read it and smiled. It was addressed to the Senator, the reporter's confidence grew.
The cameraman stood back and filmed as Rachel prepared to open the door. She looked to Todd who gave the thumbs up. On pushing the door open, all composure vanished. A naked and trussed man was the last thing she expected to see. Just as quickly she regained her senses. She recognised opportunity.
"Turn that fucking thing off."
"Senator McIntosh," she replied, bravado now powering her every thought. "I'm not all that sure you're in any position to issue orders."
"Do you know who I am?"
"The president in waiting. Isn't that what you tell your colleagues?"
"Young lady, I'll say this once. Walk away now, while you're still alive."
"Your threat is duly noted and recorded, Senator McIntosh. And while you're in such a co-operative mood, would you care to comment on this message. Perhaps explain it to your wife." Rachel read the note she'd picked up in the kitchen.
The sound of an approaching helicopter prevented further conversation. Rachel directed Todd to film its arrival, the disembarking of its passengers and their entry into the house. The face of the Senator glowered in rage.
"Before you go, maybe we should ensure the good Senator here doesn't shout any word of warning," said Rachel. "Don't suppose you have any ideas on how to ensure his silence?"
"Gag him."
"I know just the thing," said Rachel. She looked at his clothes strewn on the floor. "Why not let him chew on his underwear."
"Good shit, girl," Todd replied with laughter as he headed out to record the girls' arrival.
On a rating from one to ten, the cameraman judged all five girls an eleven. They were stunning, walking tributes to the world's boobologists, his word. The girls had similarities, they stood tall, they had an artificially enhanced shape and he guessed, judging from the tone of the message Rachel had read, they excelled in a particular form of male entertainment.
"Welcome, girls, and welcome to McIntosh Manor," said Todd as they entered the house. Several of them appeared shocked at being confronted by a television camera. What could he say to set their mind at ease? A second voice caused them to turn.
"Ladies, I'm Rachel Costello. I'm a freelance journalist on assignment to one of the major networks. Before going further, allow me to assure you, the Senator is here. We've already had words." It was she knew a slight exaggeration. Screamed threats and abuse didn't really qualify as conversation.
"Where is the Senator?" one of the girls asked.
"He's tied up at the moment." Rachel's reply was greeted by laughter from the cameraman. "Considering his options," she added.
"Can we see him?"
"Later."
"What do you want from us?"
"Answers to a whole lot of questions," Rachel replied. "But first I should advise what I'm prepared to offer in return. If you co-operate I'll guarantee the protection of your identities. Your faces will be concealed. Your names will not be disclosed, nor will your cities of residence. If on the other hand, you refuse to assist, we'll have no option but to turn the pictures over to police."
"Are you blackmailing us?"
"No at all, I'm just highlighting the consequences disgrace can bring to you and your families. Would you want your mother to know what you do?"
"We're not doin' nuthin' wrong. I wanna talk with Mac." Rachel's ear detected the hint of familiarity.
"So you've had other dealings with Senator MacIntosh?"
"I'm not sayin' nuthin' till you turn that thing off." She pointed at the camera and its operator. "And get him outta here."
"That's not how it works." Rachel felt the vibration of her phone. She remembered switching it to silent during the helicopter ride. She recognised her employer's number. "Give me a minute."
"Costello." She listened, then replied, "can you patch it through?"
She heard a man's voice.
| Author Notes | Senator McIntosh is caught with his pants down |
By bob cullen
"It's Calin Roberts. How are things progressing, Rachel?"
"Way above expectations, Captain. I'd suggest you get the Feds to arrive just before dark settles. They'll need warrants. Who knows what might be found here? I'll bet my life there's much more than just prostitution. Everyone here could be facing twenty to life. " Calin interpreted the message, it was fear provocation. She wanted her words heard by those she was questioning.
"Any luck in finding who owned the place?"
"No." The question prompted a new thought. She just hoped none of the girls knew the property's ownership. The call concluded.
"You heard that," she threw her question at the five girls. "Twenty to life, that's the norm for those convicted for racketeering and/or consorting with criminals." The carefree smiles of moments earlier had given way to frowns.
"She's lyin'," argued Mac's friend.
"Have it your way," said Rachel as she turned away. "We've got more than enough on camera. She then signed off. "Rachel Costello, CCN Evening News."
"Rachel, what sort of questions would you like to ask?" The camera focused on the speaker.
"Let's start with your name."
"Tonight I'm Randi, but my real name's Denise. Can you promise my face and name won't be shown on TV? Especially in California, my mum would be horrified if her friends found out what I was doing."
"I'll be honest, the news director decides what goes to screen, but I'll do what I can to ensure your anonymity."
Anger erupted as one of the other girls charged at Rachel swinging punches. She landed two before three of her companions restrained her. A cut opened on Rachel's cheek. "Back off, Candy," one of the girls screamed as she grabbed the attacker's hair and pulled Candy away from Rachel. She then offered an apology. The camera kept rolling.
"Sorry Rachel." The hair-puller then approached with a handkerchief which she placed on the wound inflicted by Candy. She then continued.
"On the street I'm known as Sandy but my family call me Rebecca. I'm from Nashville but I've been working around these parts for almost a year. I'm trying to get enough money together to go back to school. I don't want to go to prison."
"We might be able to get you some help in getting back to school, Sandy."
"You're gunna need help, Sandy, 'cause 'round here you're now fucked." Candy's tone guaranteed there would be neither reconciliation nor forgiveness.
"On that note perhaps, we should leave," said Rachel. The cameraman nodded. "How many people can the 'copter carry?" she asked.
"Six, I think," Rachel replied. Turning to the girls ahe added. "We've got three seats, girls. It's time for you to choose. Do you want to stand with Candy, and if that's your choice I wish you well. Or do you want to side with the truth and come with us?"
Randi and Sandy crossed the floor while the other two girls stood with Candy.
"Last chance." The vote remained two all. Rachel followed the cameraman, Sandy and Randi out the door. She then watched as the pilot fired up the helicopter. The two girls climbed onto the rear seats, wrapped themselves in the blankets located on the seat and settled down for the flight. Rachel took a position between the two. The cameraman stowed his equipment on the floor then took the seat beside the pilot.
The chopper lifted off. It had risen to about fifty feet when one of the remaining girls emerged from the house waving. Had she changed her mind? Or was it simply a trap?
"What do you want me to do?" asked the pilot.
All sorts of scenarios rushed though Rachel's mind. Had they found the Senator? Who had in turn located a cache of weapons? Surely, had that been the case, the aircraft would now be under fire. Conversely, was the girl genuine in her escape? She had ten seconds to decide, abandon or rescue?
"Tell me about her?" She sought the opinion of the girl's companions.
"I'd trust Mandy with my life," said Randi.
"Go back." The pilot swung the aircraft around.
About ten feet from the ground, the cameraman opened his door. He reached out and lifted the young woman into the aircraft the instant it touched down. He positioned her on his knee. The pilot maximised power and climbed as rapidly as safety allowed.
"What made you change your mind, Mandy," demanded Rachel raising her voice above the roar of the engine.
"Finding the Senator dead."
Conversation stopped. Fear unlike anything she had ever experienced overwhelmed Rachel. Had he choked on the gag? Would they be charged with murder? What had happened?
Rachel debated on what to do. Should she report the Senator's death? And the circumstances? How could she explain her presence at the scene?
Procrastination, a practice she hated, became a viable option. What though would be gained by waiting? Would the buying of time allow creation of a plausible alibi? Could both she and the cameraman claim the Senator was already dead on their arrival? Was she capable of maintaining such a lie?
Another more likely scenario developed. No doubt Candy had already reported it? Police would be waiting when they landed. There was no escape. Why had she listened to Calin Roberts, the man was a criminal.
As the shock receded she remembered the obvious, the cameraman had recorded footage of the Senator, alive and well. That film would save them.
Rachel glanced at the cameraman, his eyes were closed and his face carried the contented smile of pure delight. Concerns about a dead Senator were a thousand miles away. A closer look revealed the source of his satisfaction. His trousers were unbuckled and Mindy's left hand was providing pleasure.
"No." Rachel's scream snapped everyone out of their reverie. She saw Mindy's right hand wrap around the camera while the left hand diverted its attention from within the cameraman's trousers to the door's handle. Ice cold air filled the cabin as the door broke free. The camera and its evidence disappeared through the gap that had seconds earlier been a door.
"Want me to go down and look for it?" asked the pilot.
"No point," said the cameraman. "It'll be in a thousand pieces."
"What is it about you men?" Rachel was too disgusted to complete her thought. In a sense though, Rachel accepted blame, the decision to go back for Mindy had been hers. One point troubled Rachel, who had come up with the idea to destroy the camera? It was, Rachel conceded creative, clever and devious. Who possessed all of those traits? Mindy? Unlikely, she was little more than a messenger, someone despatched to carry out a task. Candy? Anger, more often than not clouded a person's ability to assess. An angry combatant relied on the quick strike, not a planned response of subtlety. Rachel knew nothing of the other girl. But she did know McIntosh, and his reputation. It had to be him. The bastard was still alive.
Rachel fumed. She'd come upon the story of a life time and had it stolen from her. She had been outsmarted by a corrupt politician and a prostitute. Was there a way of turning the tables? The sight of Mandy, now squatting on the floor where the camera had been, intensified Rachel's anger. As did the smug look of accomplishment on Mandy's face.
Desperation forced Rachel's hand, time was fast running out. Mindy had adopted a stony silence, refusing to respond to Rachel's every question. It was time for a different approach. Bluff was all she had left. Rachel hoped the pilot would provide the support she needed. Rachel directed her first question to the pilot.
"Did you get the navigational co-ordinates where the camera went out the door?"
"They're locked in."
"Can you arrange for police to meet us when we land?"
"Sure thing," the pilot replied. "Why?"
"Advise them we have a passenger on board who has wilfully damaged...." Halting there, Rachel addressed the cameraman.
"How much was your equipment worth?"
"Around four grand." The smile on Mandy's face had vanished.
Returning to the unfinished instruction she had part delivered to the pilot, Rachel continued. ".....the aircraft, jeopardised flight safety and thrown expensive recording equipment from the aircraft." The pilot relayed the detail to the control tower where they were scheduled to land in seventeen minutes. The control tower voice repeated the request prior to concluding.
"Roger that."
"Would you care to tell our friend here the type of penalty she can expect for her actions."
"She'll go to prison, a minimum of five years, I'd expect. The Federal Aviation Authority has a history of demanding maximum penalties when it comes to blatant breaches of safety."
"Mindy, guess it's time to choose. You've got about fifteen minutes. So, what's it going to be? Will Cindy and the Senator support you in goal? Will they keep you safe from the prison nasties? They're known to fight over fresh meat."
Rachel studied the young woman now slumped on the floor. Fear had gotten to her. Mindy had tears in her eyes. Still though determination ruled, she held her nerve.
"That's if she lives long enough to get to court," said the cameraman. "I've heard there are a staggering number of cases around these parts where prisoners are found dead in their cells."
By bob cullen
The airfield came into view. Mindy saw the police vehicles. She panicked. The words of the female pilot, 'five years' echoed in her ears, as did the phrase, 'fresh meat.' She knew the term's meaning. Fresh meat referred to prison's new inmates, especially the attractive ones while the 'nasties, were the hardened lesbian prisoners who demanded first use of the 'lovelies.' She'd rather be dead. Had she left it too late to negotiate?
Mindy's resistance buckled. "What do you want?"
"Names, dates and detail," Rachel replied.
"They'll kill me."
"Face facts, Mindy and think about the type of people we're talking about. They make the laws, they manipulate the laws and then they abuse the laws. And they practice one very simple philosophy when it comes to their activities. They leave no evidence and no witnesses."
"Your fate was determined the instant you flagged down this helicopter. For you now, there is no hiding place, these people have eyes everywhere."
"But the Senator promised."
"I thought you said he was dead?"
"That was his idea."
"And you trusted him?" Realisation hit Rachel hard. She recognised both futility and trap. There were too many police vehicles in attendance. It was overkill. This wasn't to be a simple arrest and detain operation. It was a full-scale military operation. McIntosh had called on friends for assistance.
"Sorry." No one understood Rachel's expression of regret. Nor did they have the opportunity to respond. McIntosh had achieved his aim. And every eye-witness would tell the same story, the aircraft just exploded in flame. No one on the ground saw the sniper or heard the shot.
In Calin's world, death was often an unavoidable reality. While specific details still eluded him, his actions of the past two weeks suggested he was skilled both in violence and in death. He had killed, he was sure of that but he carried no guilt. Like a soldier he killed to survive and to complete his mission. He required no explanations. He just obeyed orders. It was that simple.
He had learned so much about himself since the farmstead. He had killed, stolen, lied and made poor judgements. More importantly, he had survived.
Regardless of the circumstances, he'd neither fired up in anger nor had he attempted to apportion blame. Casualties had occurred, errors had been made but recriminations achieved nothing. The irritation of another soldiering adage came to mind. A good soldier remains focused and a focused soldier remains alive.
Jess slept as they motored east on I-90. They had just crossed the Minnesota State line. Country music flowed from the radio. He enjoyed these moments alone, it allowed time to think and plan. If only he could remember.
Once again the radio started to drift. It was time to locate a new provider of music. Some of these small town radio transmitters had a limited range. Calin checked his watch. It was almost the top of the hour. Perhaps it was time for a summary of the day's news rather than music. The news jingle, a catchy little piano piece, introduced the newsreader.
'Good afternoon, it's eight o'clock on a beautiful evening in Sioux Falls. I'm Murray Stafford.
'More details are emerging as investigators scour the wreckage of that helicopter crash in Montana a couple of hours ago. Police have confirmed there was a call requesting assistance approximately fifteen minutes prior to the aircraft's scheduled landing. While details are sketchy, an unconfirmed report suggests six passengers including the pilot. All are dead.' Calin listened without any great interest.
'The aircraft was chartered earlier in the day by a young reporter....' Calin didn't need to hear a name, he knew and his pulse soared. His brain went into lockdown. It was no accident. Only once before had he experienced such anger.
Another young woman had died on that occasion too. And again it was because of him. Someone had paid then, and McIntosh would pay now.
Only Fiona wasn't just a girl, she was his fiancée. Memories flooded back.
He needed to stop, clear his head of emotion. Fiona was then, Rachel was now. He mustn't confuse the two. One he loved; the other he'd never met. But they were both dead, because of an association with him.
Then there was Jess. The prospect of her being killed chilled him to the bone. Why? He owed her his life. He'd defend her to his final breath.
Jess sat up as the Camry drew to a halt. "Why are we stopping?" She sensed rather than saw his distress. "What's wrong, Calin?"
"Rachel's dead." He told of the news report.
"It's not your fault," she replied.
"I'm not stopping until he's dead." The voice was cold, determined and not open to discussion. "This is your chance, Jess. Get out now. Calin Roberts is back."
"What do you mean back?"
"I know who Calin Roberts is."
"I'm listening."
"In truth he doesn't exist, never did. He was a creation of fiction, a rogue off-the-books character employed by the Pentagon. He was the go-to man when situations blew out of control. The assassin who took on the impossible and the scapegoat when things went wrong."
"Who then was responsible for all the actions attributed to him?"
"It's all coming back to me. The tasks assigned to Calin Roberts were rotated between five operatives; I was one of the five."
"Did you kill Alex Bryant?" Jess asked.
"No."
"Do you know who did?"
"No, but I intend to find out."
"What about Marvin Trent?"
"I don't know. And the same applies to Walford. But I do know the weapon found at the scene wasn't involved in the crime though I'd be prepared to bet that very same gun has been listed by the investigators as the murder weapon."
"Can they do that?"
"'He who makes the rules is best equipped to break them.' I can't remember who said that, but he sure got it right. And the sad thing is it's a policy practiced by many of the Department heads in Washington. Accountability only applies when you're caught red-handed."
"So, what's next? Alex Bryant's killer or McIntosh?"
"First things first," he replied. "Jess, do yourself a favour. Go home. You don't belong in this world."
"Answer me one question honestly, Calin." She looked him in the eye, her tone tense. "Do you really believe I'll be safer at my mother's? They know who I am. In that sense I'm just as much a threat to them as you. You know they'll come after me. Or is this just your subtle way of getting me out of the way?"
"Jess."
"Don't Jess me." She turned away from him. She didn't want him to see the tears. Jess was astonished by his response. He came up behind her, turned her around and embraced her. His lips found hers. He pulled away.
"Jess, can't you see, I'm a cancer." Emotion was obvious; she'd not seen this fragility before. Rachel's death had brought on both guilt and self-doubt. "Anyone who gets close to me dies."
"You need me, Calin Roberts."
"I'll find you when it's all over."
"You won't have to look far, because I'll be by your side."
By bob cullen
*
Arthur Ashe was named after the tennis player. His parents were African-American and both played professional tennis. Neither however achieved sufficient victories to ever warrant an official ATP ranking. They turned their attention to teaching and coached at an indoor facility in Florida. From an early age, young Arthur, their son, displayed prodigious talent. At twelve he defeated his father for the first time, three years later he won the National Junior title, a title he defended twice. He was hailed the next Sampras.
A day after he turned eighteen Arthur downed his racquet for the final time. Against the wishes of his parents he enlisted in the military. Four months later, on the recommendation of the base Commander, he entered West Point Academy. Within a year, Arthur's real potential was discovered. The prowess displayed on the tennis court was excelled on the shooting range. His marksmanship established unprecedented records. He was never bettered in any physical activity and his performance in the classroom amazed the lecturers. He was a born soldier who was destined for many stars.
Prior to graduation he faced an evaluation interview. Two men in dark suits sat at a table, neither bothered with the formality of introduction.
"Sit down, Ashe."
"At West Point, it's Lieutenant Ashe." He'd not be intimidated by these men. He was a soldier, he deserved respect.
"Do you know who we are, soldier?"
"Recruiters from one of the Intel agencies, I would guess, most likely the CIA." Surprise registered on the faces of the two nameless assessors.
"Are you always such a confrontational prick?" the senior spokesman asked.
"One of the lessons here teaches: response in any situation is determined by the aggression of the opponent."
"Don't you know our recommendation today will determine your future?"
"I beg to differ. Your decision will define your integrity. Let's look at the facts. I excelled in every discipline, in the classroom, in the physical work and in shooting. I have everything you people need. I'm fluent in four languages, I have the skills and I have an arrogant abundance of self-belief. What more do I need?"
"Humility would be a good start."
Perhaps it was time to back off, time to tell the real story, of the making of a great competitor and the crushing of a young boy's dreams.
"Gentlemen, may I digress for a moment and tell you a little about Arthur Ashe. I've known only two things in my life, the importance of winning and the necessity of focusing intently on any given goal. Perfect traits for a CIA operative, wouldn't you say?
"If it's not yours, you take it. If you can't take it, you destroy it. You become a loner for two reasons. One, because no one wants to be with you and two, your inner secrets are best kept secret. Disclose nothing that can in the future be used against you.
"The more robotic you become the less likely you are to buckle to the external pressures of emotion and expectation. You distance yourself from others and remain tied to your controller, in my case my father. You don't have a life, you have a duty.
"That's why I joined the Army and not the marines. I wanted to be ordinary, wanted to be just a normal guy."
"Why are you telling us this?"
"I thought you wanted humility."
"Soldier, what we need is a measure of your capability. Not some pitiful story explaining why you're all screwed up. How nothing's your fault. Save that for your psych."
"I have two words, gentlemen," said Arthur as he stood to leave. "Fuck you."
"Sit down, Lieutenant." An adjoining door burst open. Another person of anonymity entered the room. He though wore the multi-starred uniform of a General.
"Are we finished playing games, Sir?" Arthur asked.
"Nowhere near finished, Lieutenant," the General had assumed control. The other two interrogators rose and left the room, their task completed. "Tell me, soldier. What can you bring to the Central Intelligence Agency?" Mention of the CIA was a lie, the agency the General had in mind was far removed from that organisation.
"Obedience, sir, I follow orders without question. I possess shooting skills far beyond any assassin on your books. And, in the words of several of the instructors here, I'm blessed with the instinctive abilities to overcome extreme adversity. And most important of all, I am prepared to die for my country, sir."
"We don't want heroes son. We need people who can perform under pressure, without supervision, and complete the impossible. And most importantly, these tasks have to be undertaken and accomplished yesterday without leaving any trace of evidence that might implicate the involvement of the American Military or Government.
"Are you interested, soldier?" asked the four-star? The young man impressed him. He lived up to every report the General had read. He stood tall, four inches over six feet, had a body other men dreamed about and a mind that responded immediately to challenge. His dismissal of the two suited interviewers reinforced the General's view. The tennis player was certainly worth a closer examination.
"I'm still here, General."
"Will you accompany me to Langley to undergo further assessment, Arthur?"
"May I ask one question, sir?"
"What is it, Lieutenant?"
"Why me?" asked Arthur.
"Your performance records here at West Point were brought to the attention of our recruiting staff. Our analysts then searched your background, your family history, your college achievements and your amazing sporting successes. One question stumped everyone. What prompts a young man to surrender a multi-million dollar career in sport for a life in the military? It made no sense. Was it a rebellion against your father? Or a kneejerk reaction to your first round defeat at Wimbledon? Or were you just tired of the discipline required to maintain your rapid climb in the world rankings? Number 16 now, I believe. The second highest ranking ever achieved by a seventeen year old, behind Boris Becker so I'm told," concluded the General.
"Let me assure you, sir. Walking away from tennis was no overnight decision. Nor was it a dummy spit. I guess I was just tired of being controlled. For my own sanity I needed to get away."
"Why the Military?"
"It offered a challenge. I knew what I'd face. Everyone, from fellow grunts to training Sergeants would want to break me. I was the big-headed star who needed to be cut down to size. It was the fight I needed and the fight I was determined to win. After a couple of months I won the respect I wanted, I became Private Ashe, no longer the world's no. 1 ranked junior tennis player.
"Then the contest started all over again when I was sent to West Point."
"It's not too late to apply for a discharge, Lieutenant."
You're wrong, sir. It's a way too late for that. I'm now where I want to be."
"Are you referring to the Military? Or to a career at Langley," asked the General.
"I'll leave that decision to those better equipped to assess my abilities, sir." He replied in fluent Arabic, a language he hoped the General understood.
"Spoken like a true diplomat." The General too adopted the language he'd learned in his first stint in Afghanistan.
A week later, Langley welcomed a new recruit.
| Author Notes | While there is no mention of Calin Roberts in this excerpt, the role of Arthur will become apparent in future chapters |
By bob cullen
Six months later Arthur undertook his first mission. He accompanied a Calin Roberts on a pre-attack incursion deep into Pakistan in April of 2011. Satellite Intel believed it had pinpointed the location of Osama Bin Laden. Their role had been one of reconnaissance. A month later he participated in the apprehension of the wanted man, with another Calin Roberts.
He had learned his first lesson; deception was a major weapon in the clandestine activities of his employer. Within a year, he himself would carry the name of Calin Roberts. Another Al Qaeda leader was dead, the victim of a sniper.
Arthur responded to the summons. For the first time since the meeting at West Point several years ago, he again sat opposite the General who had conducted that initial interview. The General wasn't alone; the Homeland Assistant Director, a man named Walter Parnell occupied the seat beside him, his face lined with concern.
"Lieutenant, as you're aware, the Agency's prime role is to ensure national security. From time to time however, problems arise within the confines of our own corridors, problems that require an immediate solution.
"As you know, constitutionally our powers are severely restricted when it comes to operating on home soil. However, in moments of absolute crisis we can't stand idly by and allow radical fanatics to plot against this Nation. We have a responsibility of duty to protect, and a determination of spirit to ensure the welfare of our American way of life. We have no choice but to act.
"At this point, the Assistant Director must depart as other matters require his attention." Arthur translated the message. In leaving the discussion, the Assistant Director could deny all accountability and knowledge. His very presence though confirmed the opposite, he was fully aware of the order about to be delivered.
The Assistant Director had remained silent. His attendance though left no doubt as to where true authority remained. The General understood, and accepted his role; he was the patsy in the event of anything going wrong. But nothing would go wrong, Calin Roberts would see to that. Calin never failed.
The General waited until the door closed. He then spoke.
"Arthur." His tone conveyed urgency yet his manner remained unhurried. Time was of the essence but precision was more important. Procrastination though wasn't an option.
"We have a problem that requires an immediate resolution. And we both know the man best qualified for the task."
"Calin Roberts," Arthur interrupted. The General nodded."Who? Where? And when?" One thought troubled Arthur. Why had the Assistant Director been in attendance and not the Director herself?
"Let's begin with your third question, when. Yesterday would have been ideal. Where, now that's a little more difficult. In fact, the location could be anywhere on mainland USA. I believe your final question concerned the mission's target. That's where the complications begin. The man you're pursuing goes by the name Calin Roberts." The General observed Arthur's response.
"One of my predecessor's," Arthur asked?
"Yes."
"Might I ask who?"
"That will be made clear when and if you agree to take the commission."
"What did he do?"
"He's gone rogue and has to be silenced, quickly," the General answered. "But be warned, the man is good."
"I'm better."
"In this business, Arthur, best doesn't always win. Victory goes to the man who's most thorough in his preparation. You'll get one chance, as will he? Now let me tell you a little about Tyler Spellman." To his surprise, the General found he had an attentive listener. The response pleased the speaker; the young man was confident but not arrogant.
"I see you remember Pakistan in April of 2011," said the General. "You know how good he is. Many people in the Department consider him the best ever; I believe that ranking has now slipped to number two, behind you, Arthur."
"I'll need to study his file."
"A waste of time, Lieutenant, the file only contains what he's told us. The real facts remain secured in his head. Six weeks ago we handed him over to the guys who operated out of Guantanamo, with no success. Eventually they broke him physically but they couldn't free his secrets."
"And they left him alive?"
"They set him up, an armed killer next to his victim. The plan was to kill rather than apprehend."
"What happened?"
"He escaped."
"What then can you tell me?" Arthur asked.
"Not a great deal, we do however have someone who should be able to assist. Her name is Alexis Bryant. She assisted Spellman in his most recent getaway and she's now in custody."
"I know that name."
"You should," the General replied. "You killed her father."
"When do I meet her?"
"As soon as I can arrange her release."
"Where is she?"
"In custody, in a military prison," said the General. The lack of detail bothered Arthur. Why the secrecy?
"Charged with what?"
"Desertion."
"What is the connection between her and Spellman?" asked Arthur. "How and where did they meet?"
"Alexis is an elite soldier. Along with eleven colleagues, she was despatched to hunt down, apprehend and if necessary kill a man named Calin Roberts, the man we now know as Spellman."
"What happened?"
"Roberts defied all logic and survived."
"One against twelve."
"That, my friend, is who you are up against."
"Where is he now?"
"We don't know. According to Bryant, he was unconscious and close to death at a point near to where she handed herself in to police. A detailed search of the location found a significant amount of blood and a cache of weapons matching those stolen from Bryant and her colleagues. Initial testing of the blood has positively identified it as Spellman's."
"Is it possible she disposed of the body herself?" asked Arthur.
"Unlikely, I would think," replied the General. "I'd be more inclined to believe she saw Spellman's body as proof of her allegations."
"Is it possible then that someone else has removed the body of Spellman to refute any claims made by Bryant?"
"That is possible, but unlikely. Every instinct tells me the bastard is alive, and no doubt recovering somewhere. I'll not rest until I see his body. And that's where I'm counting on you."
"Let's go talk to Miss Bryant then," said Arthur.
By bob cullen
An hour later the General and Arthur were airborne. The helicopter pilot charted a north westerly course. They set down on a Military airfield: a car awaited them.
The base was small, the weather cold and a fine cover of snow had settled on the ground. The driver dropped them outside the Commander's office. Once inside the door, the General assumed control. Everyone snapped to attention.
"At ease, gentlemen," he said on saluting. The tension remained. Something was wrong. The Base Commander's absence was noted. "Where's the prisoner?"
Silence.
"She's dead." The senior ranking officer replied. The man wore a Captain's uniform.
"Where's Commander Rodwell?"
"He's also dead."
"Start talking, Captain." The General's face was livid with rage, his worst fears confirmed. This situation was now beyond Military involvement. Someone far higher on the chain of command, in all probability one of his own Pentagon superiors, was now in control. Calin Roberts, in the form of Tyler Spellman, had panicked everyone.
"Commander Rodwell received a phone call around forty minutes ago," said the Captain. "It was from his wife and she appeared to be very distressed. The call lasted no more than a minute. I then watched as he stormed over to the cell where prisoner Bryant was held.
"Personally I didn't see anymore. However I'll quote the eyewitness account provided by Corporal Lance, the prison duty officer at the time. He told how the Commander charged in and ordered him to stand back as he had some important questions for the prisoner. The Corporal obeyed and moved as far away as he could ensuring he had vision of whatever was about to occur. The prisoner was his responsibility. At the same time, the Commander was his superior.
"Next he said the Commander called the prisoner close to ensure their conversation could remain confidential. He then reached through the bars and grabbed prisoner Bryant by the collar and held her tight. With his other hand, he drew his revolver and placed it on her forehead. In a matter of two seconds the prisoner was dead. As Corporal Lance ran towards the prison cell, the Commander turned the gun on himself."
"Where is Corporal Lance now?" demanded the General.
"He's very traumatized and undergoing counselling."
"Get him here."
"Sir," the Captain answered. "I'm advised he's been sedated."
"Did he hear anything the Commander asked?"
"No sir."
"Has the Commander's wife been informed?"
"The phone's not answering."
"Have the police been contacted?"
"Yes sir. The tragedy has claimed another victim. Police found Mrs Rodwell dead in her lounge room."
"No sign of anyone else?"
"I don't know. The police officer I spoke to was particularly abrupt, offering no detail other than suggesting investigations are underway. I was told we'll be informed on any matter pertaining to Military procedure.
"The detective concluded by stating, and I'll quote as accurately as I can. 'As the crime took place on non-military property it is now a civilian investigation. I'd appreciate you passing that on to your superiors.'"
"We'll see about that," said the General. "I don't suppose you have his name?"
"Detective Kennedy Lyons."
"Get him back on the line."
"Sir."
"Now." The General's barked reply allowed the young soldier no explanation.
Arthur watched in silence. Everything he witnessed confirmed his suspicions. Someone in a position of extreme power was pulling the strings. The General was a mere puppet, the stage actor responding to the directions of the off-stage director. The General reached for his phone. The conversation was brief, more listening than talking. His head nodded; an indication of understanding and acceptance.
Few things irritated the General more than the posturing and politicking employed by the various policing bodies demanding command. Ego was such a divisive and counter-productive waste of energy. It created tension, aggression and distrust, which in turn gave rise to gossip and rumour.
The General knew the solution. He had been told what to do. He would assume control. Absolute secrecy was essential. It would become a military operation. His team would take possession of, and secure all gathered and available evidence prior to dismissing every local police officer who had attended the scene.
There were times however, when circumstances demanded a dictatorial response. Local police had no role in a situation that involved Calin Roberts, nor for that matter did the FBI. Calin Roberts was a law unto himself, and out of control, a flawed creation in a flawed environment. And that environment had to be protected.
It was time to put Detective Kennedy Lyons in his place. He listened as the Corporal made the connection.
"Detective Lyons, its Corporal Parker," he said. "I have General William Thomas from the Pentagon here. He would like to discuss this matter with you." The response didn't disappoint.
"Nothing's changed." The call disconnected, the respondent had no interest in conversation.
"Get the detective back." Annoyance was obvious.
"If you value your career, Lyons, you'll listen to me. My next call will be to your Chief."
"He's right here, I'll put him on." The voice shocked the General, as did the attitude. Detective Lyons was female and judging from her reply, a woman accustomed to crime scene control.
"Fraser Paull." The tone was abrupt. It further fired up the anger in the General.
"I'm not into making threats, Officer Paull, but I'd suggest you listen to what I say and then consider the situation fully.
"Let me assure you, the circumstances surrounding the murder of Mrs Rodwell has implications far beyond your imagination and does in fact intrude on matters of national security. Details of these circumstances cannot be discussed over the phone. Suffice to say, her husband, Commander Rodwell is also dead, shot at close range on a military installation less than one hour ago shortly after taking a call from his wife. That death, along with another, only minutes earlier, is also under investigation." The General saw no need to mention suicide.
"I understand your situation, Fraser." He hoped a more personal approach might attract a degree of support.
"Give me a name," said Paull. The police officer's attitude concerned the General. The man was not in the least swayed by the General's demand. "Someone in Washington who will verify the situation, and then adjudicate on who does in fact, have investigative and jurisdictional authority in this instance."
"You're making this difficult on yourself, Paull, but I'll comply with your request. You'll have your confirmation, along with a request for the secondment of Detective Lyons, within three minutes I would expect." On this occasion, the General severed the connection.
| Author Notes | Calin and Jess will return shortly |
By bob cullen
"Call me Bill," said the General on taking the call from Detective Lyons.
"I'll address you as Sir, and I'd appreciate you calling me Detective Lyons." The ice age generated more warmth than her greeting.
"Can you provide me with a brief rundown on the evidence discovered so far, Detective."
"Your instructions have been adhered to, Sir. The site has been cleared of all local investigators with the exception of those securing the scene's perimeter." She made no attempt to conceal her anger. Nonetheless she continued, her integrity enforcing an uncomfortable cooperation. "Our forensic team, in the few minutes they were allowed, found nothing. No forced entry, no indication of violence and not a shred of physical evidence. At the time of her death, Mrs Rodwell was relaxed and sitting comfortably in a lounge chair. Her head was resting against the seat's cushioned back."
There was so much more Kennedy Lyons could have added. But detail was, she believed, most effective when delivered at the scene. The detective recalled her first impressions. The victim's lap was wet, a coffee cup, now on a table beside her chair had spilled its contents. A stain on the floor indicated the cup's landing space. Someone had lifted the cup from the floor. It was the act of a woman.
"There was little blood spatter, just a thick mass of blood where the head had been. An indentation on the wall matched the bullet's probable trajectory. There was however, no exit point on the wall's exterior which indicated lodgement of the bullet within the wall's framework. But not so, the shooter had removed the evidence required to identify the weapon. It was a clean and professional hit. A single shot, from close range, between the eyes."
"Did the neighbours see or hear anything?"
"Forty minutes doesn't allow a lot of time, General, but my team had commenced a door-to-door canvassing, prior to being called off. They had spoken to the closest residents on either side of the Rodwell home and the neighbour directly behind. No one saw or heard anything."
"Thank you Detective, we should be there within the hour. Is there anything else, Detective?" The General anticipated a blunt dismissal.
"I believe she knew her killer, sir." Lyons delivered her opinion with certainty. "And my instincts suggest the shooter may well have been a woman."
"What brings you to that conclusion, Detective?" The General cursed the sharpness of his tone. "Allow me to rephrase that."
"No need, sir, neither words nor authority intimidate me, I'm just here to do my job. So back to your question, what makes me suspect a woman? The first indication is the faint presence of a perfume in the air. The victim doesn't appear to be wearing any and there is no fragrance dispenser anywhere in the house. Second, Mrs Rodwell and her killer were sharing coffee in the moments leading up to her death, coffee assumedly made by the victim. And my final reason has no basis in fact, just feminine experience. Mrs Rodwell's coffee cup had fallen to the floor. Someone has then placed it back on a side table; a man wouldn't have tidied up the mess."
"I look forward to meeting you Detective Lyons." She sensed the lie. The General's only interest lay in closing down the investigation, protecting the God damn military. Her anger intensified. Her role in the enquiry was about to be terminated.
*
"What now?" asked Arthur as they strode towards the helicopter? They halted about forty yards short of the aircraft to complete their conversation.
"Perhaps it's time to allow Calin Roberts free rein. Have you any ideas, Calin."
"Not without more detail, sir. And full disclosure would be a good place to start."
"Are you suggesting you've been misinformed in the past?" There was an uncharacteristic terseness in the tone. Quite obviously the General didn't appreciate insubordination.
"Sir." The Lieutenant's demeanour had changed. Neither apology nor back down existed in the mind of Calin Roberts. Respect remained but military protocol surrendered, replaced by the instinct of survival. "I obey orders and never question a command, but you and I both know bullshit and covering one's arse takes precedence in the eyes of some senior command. What are they hiding?"
"What is it you want, Arthur?"
"Make up your mind, General. Is it Arthur or Calin? I can't be both. And if it's to be Calin, I need the truth from hereon in. And you can start by telling me what Spellman did?"
"I can't tell you what I don't know."
"Who then authorised the debriefing by the Guantanamo gestapo and the subsequent pursuit of him?"
"Again I don't know."
"I'll need a list of names of those capable of issuing directives to terminate."
"Wouldn't it be easier to go after Spellman?"
"Easier for whom, General, you or one of your Pentagon pals," demanded Arthur? "Who are you protecting?"
"I'm not sure I like your tone, soldier."
"And I'm not all that keen on pursuing a brother on the unproven allegations of unidentified men whose sole intent is self-survival."
"He's not a brother, soldier. He's a fucking traitor, a cowardly bastard who sold out this country." Every instinct in Calin suggested untruth. The General was becoming agitated and lying.
"General Thomas, as you're aware, I've undertaken intensive assessment and analytical studies and when I apply those principles to this case I keep coming back to the same conclusion, deceit. It's either blatant lying or doctored truth. Allow me to start with the most obvious point. A traitor is rarely allowed back on the streets to again ply his trade, unless of course he is fitted with some form of electronic surveillance tag, most probably surgically inserted which we know didn't happen in this instance. Otherwise you would know his precise location at any given time. So that gives lie to the treason argument." Arthur maintained eye contact, the General looked away.
"Next I ask myself," Arthur continued. "What prompts such an urgent and insane response? The answer is obvious. The one being pursued has uncovered knowledge that threatens someone else's past, or more possibly, future. Who could it be? And what is the secret? All we know is the secret involves a very prominent person in either the Pentagon or the Presidential Administration.
"And the termination order is being passed down. Am I wrong, General?"
"Are you incapable of undertaking the mission, soldier?" Again the General was on the offensive.
"Am I getting too close to the truth?"
"Dismissed," the General snapped. "And you're confined to your barracks until further notice. Failure to comply with this instruction will see you incarcerated. Do you understand?"
"More than you know, General." Calin found it difficult to contain his disgust. "Does that offer of a year ago, still stand?"
"What offer was that?"
"Release back into civilian life?"
"We'll discuss that once this matter is resolved. Now get into the helicopter. I have a case to solve." The din created by the aircraft's engine prevented further conversation. The silence only served to intensify Calin's anger.
"Wait here for me," said the General on alighting from the aircraft as it set down on the street outside the Rodwell home. "This should only take a few minutes."
"I'm coming with you."
"No, you're not. Your decision to decline the mission removes you from all involvement in the investigation. You'll wait here." Arthur, never again would he consider himself Calin, saw the General again reach for his phone.
The pilot heard nothing; his ears remained cupped by the headphones. Arthur's instincts kicked in. He tapped the pilot on the shoulder and by way of hand signals indicated his intention to alight. The pilot offered thumbs up and continued on checking the aircraft's cockpit panels. He paid no attention to Arthur's exit.
Arthur walked up to one of the perimeter cops. He made sure his presence couldn't be seen from either the house or the helicopter. "Buddy," he said. "I'm with the General who's just gone inside to talk with Detective Lyons, and I thought I should ask if you guys saw anything suspicious. You never know what a second set of eyes might see."
"I'm not sure I should be talking to you guys," he answered. "Especially after the heavy handed FO policy you guys imposed."
"Can't say I know the FO policy. What is it?"
"Fuck off."
"Not my doing, sorry. Military command is littered with arse holes. Don't suppose anyone got the name of the bastard who delivered the message?"
"I didn't, maybe Detective Lyons did."
"Do you know which car she drives?"
"The unmarked Ford over there," replied the obviously disgruntled policeman. He
pointed to a dark blue sedan.
"Do you think she'll mind if I take a seat and wait for her?"
"It might be quite a wait."
"I doubt it. I believe she too is about to get the FO treatment."
By bob cullen
Less than thirty minutes later, Arthur watched as Kennedy Lyons stormed towards her vehicle. The officer to whom he'd spoken shook his head in disbelief
"Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my car."
"Might I suggest you drive while I talk? Your friend, General Thomas wouldn't be too happy to see us together. I too have incurred his wrath."
She eased the Ford into gear. "Start talking."
"My name is Arthur Ashe. May I call you Kennedy?"
"The tennis player; thought I recognised you. Didn't you join the Military?"
"Correct on both counts. And until twenty minutes ago I served under the direct command of General William Thomas. Before I continue, I must inform you, I am now probably listed as AWOL. So maybe you shouldn't be seen with me."
"Where is all of this heading, Arthur? My friends call me Kenni, that's Kenni with an 'I'."
"It's a long and convoluted story and much of it is I'm afraid, classified. Suffice to say Kenni, it does involve National security but not in the way the General implies. It's to do with corruption and the abuse of position."
"What does all of this have to do with the murder of the Rodwell woman? A crime William Thomas is now going to officially label suicide. The woman was executed. What does all of this have to do with your conspiracy theory?"
"It's no theory. It is absolute fact. Allow me to fill you in with some detail. And this cannot be repeated or admitted into evidence. I must have your word on that."
"Agreed."
"Mrs Rodwell received a visitor this morning, a woman, possibly someone she knew. Or more probably someone who carried documentation that invited entry. The visitor then had Mrs Rodwell call her husband on base. Verification of that call can be established. I have no doubt however; efforts are presently underway to remove all evidence of the call. While I can't provide the precise detail of what was said, I can tell of the consequences that followed."
Arthur's explanation had captured an attentive listener.
"Her husband's base was detaining a young soldier named Alexis Bryant as prisoner. Miss Bryant had in the past couple of days associated with a man named Spellman. Spellman is at the centre of this entire mess. It is believed Spellman has uncovered information alleging the involvement of a very prominent Washington person in treacherous dealings against the Nation. This person learned of the planned interrogation of the prisoner. In the belief that death alone brought permanent silence and fearing Spellman may have passed on his knowledge to Miss Bryant, the traitor ordered Bryant's execution."
"I'm not sure I should hear anymore," said the Police officer.
"You may not need to hear it, but I need to tell it," Arthur replied prior to continuing. "I suspect Mrs Rodwell's killer then spoke to Rodwell, ordering him to kill Bryant or be responsible for the death of his wife. Fear forced Rodwell to comply. He shot Bryant then turned the gun on himself. He had to know his wife would be found dead."
"What do you want from me?"
"The name of the person in Washington who spoke to Fraser Paull and authorised Military control in the investigation," said Arthur.
"Fraser didn't tell me."
"Where would I find him now?" Arthur tried to conceal the urgency.
"Is he in danger?"
"Based on precedent, I'd expect there's already a contract on his life, possibly the same assassin who killed Mrs Rodwell."
"What can we do?"
"We find him before she does," Arthur replied. "Any ideas on where he might be?" Kennedy Lyons offered no response. "Try his phone."
She called his cell, it rang out. Next she tried his desk phone. The respondent advised he'd not yet returned from the murder scene. Lyons listened as the woman continued. "There was another call, a woman who didn't leave her name. She claimed to have information on the Rodwell killing and she wanted to meet with Detective Paull." Lyons switched to panic mode.
"Calm down, Detective," said Arthur. "Let's not clutter our heads with things we can't control. How well do you know Detective Paull? Does he ever switch his phone off, to go to church, maybe?"
"Arthur, you're a genius. I'd forgotten today is Wednesday. Paull visits his twelve year-old autistic son every Wednesday afternoon and the boy is terrified by chiming cell phones so Detective Paull switches his phone off during the visit."
"How soon can you get us there?"
"About twelve minutes."
"Make it ten."
"Hang on," Lyons replied as she engaged the siren and emergency lights. She drove with the manic intensity of a kamikaze pilot but with the precision of a grand prix driver. Judgement was measured in inches and timing in milliseconds. She weaved through the traffic with the freedom of a cloud floating across an empty sky. He watched in absolute awe.
They saw Paull's car; they weren't too late. Kennedy Lyons saw him first, playfully chasing after his son. The boy half ran and half stumbled out of the building's front door, Paull close behind him. It was a game, the boy laughing as he led the way.
"Stop, or I'll shoot," Paull called, a toy gun in his hand. The boy kept running, his laughter growing in volume. Hospital staff stood in the doorway sharing in the humour. The child ran around the car.
Arthur was out of the car and running. Instinctively he knew; the assassin was one step ahead of him. Paull's car was her weapon of death. A car bomb was so simple. It rarely failed, seldom left worthwhile evidence and it allowed the killer time to escape prior to detonation.
Like the scene at the house it carried the hallmarks of professionalism. Though he personally had never employed this style of execution, Arthur knew how it worked. A tracking device had been planted on Paull's car, undoubtedly at the murder scene. The vehicle was then located, the explosive assembled and fitted beneath the chassis, fired to detonate the instant a door opened.
"No," Arthur screamed as he watched the boy reach for the door release on his father's car.
The explosion drowned out Arthur's cry. The car erupted into a mass of flame. The door the boy had opened flew across the vast expanse of lawn. The tiny body of Paull's son disintegrated before Arthur's eyes.
The scream from behind him alerted him to Kenni's frantic dash towards the burning vehicle. He had to stop her; there was the possibility of further explosions. There was nothing she could do. The child was dead.
By bob cullen
General William Thomas experienced only anger when he watched the news report. There was no guilt at the death of the child, but considerable anxiety at the survival of Paull and Arthur. Anyone with knowledge posed potential risk, but when it was men of the calibre of Arthur Ashe and Detective Paull, that risk intensified. And it would magnify many times over should these men learn the truth about Tyler Spellman. Or even worse, join forces with him.
The General made one call. He received the anticipated reprimand, along with an order to add the detective named Paull to his termination list. He made another call.
An hour later he greeted his guest. She was vaguely familiar. "Have we met before?" he asked.
"No." The venue was her choice, a small restaurant in a suburb renowned for its Lebanese cuisine. He allowed her to order, then swapped meals following the waiter's departure.
"Don't you trust me?" she asked in Arabic.
"One can't be too careful."
"Were death on the menu, you'd already be dead." She held his stare. "I never combine business and pleasure and tonight I plan on pleasing." She offered her hand across the table. He reached across; the lack of warmth in her fingers surprised him. The old adage; 'cold fingers, warm heart' produced a tingle of excitement.
They ate and drank. Thomas relaxed on seeing the Moslem edict of alcohol abstinence bypassed. Tonight they'd escape; even killers needed timeout occasionally. The General failed to pick up on the attentiveness of the drinks waiter. Each time he passed, the waiter topped up his drink and ignored the flute of his companion. The General consumed 80% of the first bottle and all of the second.
They left the restaurant hand-in-hand, him intoxicated to the point of requiring her support to walk and her fully sober. The General tried to remember his last romantic tryst. She had been an ambitious Corporal keen on advancement. His only interest had been lust. He smiled on recalling his response. He had her posted to Alaska next day.
Memories yielded to the promised pleasures of what lay ahead. Already he felt arousal. How long since a woman had affected him so? She was so much smaller than he had envisioned and so much prettier. The burka added to her intrigue and mystique. Her eyes mesmerised him, as did her personality. He couldn't imagine her as a cold-blooded killer. In stark contrast he couldn't eliminate the reality of the file he'd read.
A good soldier studies his surrounds, knows an avenue of escape at all times. The vision of Thomas extended no further than visualising the naked perfection that led him on. He was blind to every change. He truly was lost in lust. The business district had given way to a seedier neighbourhood; the only traders on these streets were prostitutes and drug dealers.
The hotel was run down, not that the clients cared. All they required was a bed and a half hour. Once in the room, she removed the burka. The veils followed. Down to her underwear, she turned her attention to him.
"You won't be requiring this tonight," she said as she unclipped his sidearm. "Tonight I'm interested in only one weapon." He groaned as her hand stroked his groin.
"Come here." He tried to reach out for her.
"Tonight, sir, I'm in charge," she replied on evading his grope.
"Now lie on the bed, I'll be right back. Don't go to sleep on me," she instructed. Once more she stroked his manhood. He watched her go into the bathroom. When she returned she was naked apart from gloves. He wondered why.
She reached beneath the bed and came up with a silenced pistol and a blood saturated pillow. There was no time to react. He wondered no more. Twin shots entered his brain, death came instantly.
Once more she retreated to the bathroom. On return she carried a dead body over her shoulder; the years of weight training had achieved its purpose. She possessed the strength of a woman twice her size. She laid the body beside General Thomas in the precise position she had been two hours earlier in the instant of her death. Next she placed the gun in the hand of the dead woman with the barrel in her mouth. Rigor mortis hadn't yet set in. The killer then put the blood-stained pillow beneath the dead woman's head, again where it had been previously. Entry and exit wounds matching this shot and a bullet in the wall would add to the authenticity of a murder suicide scene.
She walked from the room and exited via the fire escape. She pulled her cell from her bag and typed: 'one down, three to go.' In her mind she tossed around possible plans for Paull, Arthur Ashe and Tyler Spellman. She disappeared into the night, contemplating retirement. Three more hits at three million each would ensure a more than comfortable future.
By bob cullen
For two days they'd motored south, drawing ever closer to the real battle ground, Washington. Tomorrow the fight would begin. How though, he didn't yet know? Tyler's memory had stalled, no new detail had emerged. In one sense the reality of the situation terrified him, he was one against thousands. A man of truth, he believed, opposed to an army of liars. What chance did he stand? Trust in the integrity of his employer, whoever that employer had been, had long vanished.
Jess was driving. Tyler occupied the passenger's seat. He stared out the window, his thoughts drifting somewhere between depression and despair.
"Stop," he called on recognising a source of familiarity.
"What is it?"
"That billboard, I've stayed there." Jess stared at the huge advertising banner that offered golf, accommodation and exceptional value. 'THE LONG DRIVE: Six star quality at a four star price.' It featured an expansive single storied complex adjacent to a golf course.
"When?"
"Recently, I think," Tyler replied. "And I'm sure I had company. But I don't know who. If only there was a way of finding out my companion's identity."
"Male or female?" asked Jess.
"I don't know."
"Work or pleasure?"
"No idea."
"What say we arrange a night's accommodation? See if that triggers any memory?"
"What if they recognise me?"
"They can't identify someone they don't see. I'll make the reservation in my name, a single room for a lady travelling alone."
"Insist on paying in cash, explain your card is maxed out and use the name of a friend, someone whose address you know. Better still identify yourself as Serena Bridges." The name had burst from memory. Serena Bridges had been the name of a safe house in London, an address known to every Calin Roberts. "And request a copy of today's newspaper."
The LONG DRIVE lived up to its advertised claim; it was sheer luxury at an almost affordable price. The accommodation thoroughly deserved its six-star rating while the golf course's boast of PGA approved appeared justified.
Each suite looked out over manicured fairways, large bunkers and massive undulating greens. Cart tracks were adjacent to every fairway. It was in every sense a golfer's dream. An electric cart was parked beside each unit.
Tyler stared out the window, the familiarity refused to retreat. He had been here before. The three questions of why, when and with whom, furthered his torment. He walked from the window, gathered up the newspaper and seated himself at the table
The article jumped out at Tyler. Any story featuring the word 'Military' in the headline attracted his interest. It was a name he vaguely remembered, General William Thomas. Where had he heard that name? He read the details in the hope it might jog his memory. Nothing, recollection remained non-existent. Mid-article, he tossed the paper aside in disgust. Would his memory ever return?
"What is it, Tyler?" asked Jess on recognising his growing frustration.
"Just another sleazy high ranking soldier caught with his pants down." She picked the paper off the floor. Her pulse rate soared as she read the entire article. Another link had been established.
"Pity you didn't read the final two paragraphs." Now she had his attention.
"What did I miss?"
"Read it for yourself." She passed the paper to Tyler.
'A Military source advised General William Thomas was, at the time of his death, heading the investigation into two recent deaths at a Military Base.
While the names haven't yet been released, we can confirm one of them, a young woman was a member of a specialist unit whose members were found shot to death three days ago.'
Tyler shook his head in disgust. There was no anger, just resignation. Death was, he now believed, the one form of relief he could anticipate. There was no escaping these relentless pursuers. They had the resources, the manpower and the backing of both the military and the judicial authorities. In contrast Tyler took stock of his assets, a young gymnast named Jess and the truth.
"Go home, Jess. It's all over. I've had enough, I'm running on empty. I'm going to hand myself in."
"Over my dead body," she snapped. Her outburst stunned him. He was freeing her of the tag of hunted terrorist. "So you've given up, Tyler. Where's Calin when I need him? He wasn't a quitter."
"He wasn't hounded for something he didn't do. And he had a memory."
"You don't need to justify, Tyler. You're not the first coward to walk away when things got tough, and you won't be the last. Go ahead, let the liars win. Let them gain control. You'll have all eternity to weigh up the consequences of your action." Her voice was growing louder, she was nearing break point. "Fuck off, quitter. And thanks for the ride." She burst into tears.
Jess jumped to her feet and ran for the door. He blocked her path. She threw several punches, they lacked in both power and direction. He wrapped his arms around her, and felt her resistance collapse. His guilt intensified, he had failed her. He apologised as he carried her to the bed. He held her until the crying stopped. Then he kissed her, firstly like a sister and then with the tenderness of a lover.
Darkness had descended and his depression had lifted, at least temporarily.
"What say we find someplace to eat," Jess suggested as they stepped out of the shower. "A candle lit dinner in the restaurant sounds nice to me."
"You paying?"
"No, but if you're really good, I might arrange dessert for later." Her eyes sparkled with seductive tease. "If you're up to it, old man?"
He chased her, caught her and threw her on the bed. "No dinner, no dessert," she protested. His lips melted her resistance. A moment later she added. "Guess dinner will have to wait."
"Wouldn't you prefer to walk?" she asked as they approached the golf cart. "A stroll in the evening is so romantic."
"My, how quickly opinions change. Don't you remember our last evening stroll? We spent most of the next day trapped in a police car trunk. Suppose it was rather cosy." She glared at him.
"Jess," his voice took on a more serious tone. "We're only here one night and I need to take a look around." In an effort to lighten the mood, he added. "And who knows, you might get lucky. Have you ever made out in a bunker?" For the first time in several days he felt the vibration of laughter in his throat.
"My name's not Sandy?" In a raspy and out of tune voice he attempted the song John Travolta sang to Olivia Newton John in the movie Grease.
"What do you hope to find, a mouthful of sand to improve the voice?"
"Something to provoke my memory."
While the food and the service were of the finest quality, Tyler's hopes were dashed. Nothing triggered any recollection. The staff, the menu and the restaurant's interior were as alien to him as to a first time guest. The demon called doubt returned with a vengeance. Had his initial reaction to the billboard been incorrect? He needed to talk with a staff member. He signalled for a waiter. The one who acknowledged the call turned and walked towards the kitchen. Tyler watched his every move. The waiter spoke to the maitre'd. He now approached Tyler and Jess. Something about his demeanour registered in Tyler's brain.
"Good evening, sir. I trust the LONG DRIVE has lived up to your expectations."
There was neither warmth nor sincerity in the words. He was no waiter. Tyler studied the man's eyes. Tyler saw recognition; the maitre'd was aware of who he was. So much became apparent in an instant. He had once more walked Jess and himself into a trap. What to do?
Tyler pulled four one hundred notes from his billfold, placed it on the table and said. "Might I suggest we go outside to discuss this?"
"Don't try anything stupid, Calin."
"Leave her out of this," he said as he stood and walked towards the door marked fire escape. The other man followed, his hand now caressing a Glock pistol.
Jess froze on hearing the words of the maitre'd. Was this the end? Tyler was unarmed. And opposed to an armed gunman intent on arrest and God knows how many assistants. What could she do to assist? She glanced at her watch, 9.37.
Several minutes later she heard a single gunshot. Her scream echoed around the restaurant. No one tried to stop her as she ran through the door Tyler had taken minutes earlier.
| Author Notes | Sorry about the delay in posting this chapter, Christmas has been chaotic. |
By bob cullen
"We need to contact Spellman," said Kennedy Lyons who had replaced her grieving superior as lead investigator. They were in an unmarked car heading east.
"I'd say, you've more chance of arranging a face-to-face with the good Lord himself," said the former tennis player. "Spellman is more invisible than a shadow on the blackest night."
"He needs us as much as we need him."
"You're only half right, Kenni, we do need him. But his very survival proves he can survive without us."
"How well do you know him?"
"Socially, not at all, though I have shared assignments with him," Ashe replied. "Actually I lie, I attended a meeting with a number of colleagues about four months ago, and he was there. We spoke briefly. I do however recall him expressing his anger at the appointment of the new Assistant Director."
"Is that new AD still around?"
"No. He was murdered by a sniper within a week of his appointment."
"Spellman's work?" she surmised.
"He was blamed, but he denied it. He claimed he was overseas at the time."
"Do you believe him?"
"I want to. He was one of my predecessors as Calin Roberts and I'd like to think we shared similar values. But then he disappeared and I must confess I had my doubts, I believed what I was told, Tyler Spellman had gone rogue and he had to be silenced." Arthur fell silent as he thought about his colleague.
"Then I got involved," he continued. "I was assigned the task of locating him. The more I learned, the more I discovered inconsistencies. So many lies were being told, Tyler hadn't gone AWOL. He was, I've since learned, placed under house arrest and subjected to intensive interrogation. They tried to break him, with drugs and torture just to get a confession and when that didn't work they set him up at the farmhouse. The one thing they didn't count on was his ability to survive.
"In treating him as enemy, they created a monster beyond their control."
"But we're not his enemies."
"He doesn't know that. In his mind as this moment I would think he sees us as the deadliest enemy. And after what's he's been through this past month, that thinking is more than justified."
"Are you suggesting one of our secret Pentagon organisations would do that to one of their own operatives?"
"In the interest of National security they'll do whatever they consider necessary."
"Who determines what constitutes a national risk?"
"There lies the problem."
Her phone rang. "Lyons." She listened to the caller then, in a tone bordering on disbelief asked. "Where? And, when?" The short response to her two questions ended the call.
"Bad news?" asked Arthur.
"Tell me about Thomas?" The pre-call conversation of polite enquiry had taken on the sharpness of blunt interrogation of a suspect.
"He's dead, isn't he?"
"Yes, found shot dead by a prostitute who then suicided."
"That means I'm next." Fear had long ceased being a concern to Arthur Ashe. He worried about factors external to his circle of control. As an operative, he preferred that word to assassin he surveyed his surrounds, studied his target and planned to the second the hit and his escape route. Now, as a target, someone else was doing precisely that. And, judging on performance to date, the General and Rodwell's wife, Arthur realised that that someone was both efficient and capable. Circumstances were beyond his influence. Arthur switched onto high alert. The killer could be anyone. Perhaps even a police officer. How well did he know Kennedy Lyons?
"It wasn't a suicide, I can guarantee that," said Arthur. "General Thomas had outlived his usefulness."
"Are you suggesting he was somehow involved in all of this?"
"Not suggesting, Detective, downright stating it as fact, unproven at this time, but believe me, fact nonetheless."
"Why Detective, Arthur, I thought we'd agreed to forgo formalities?"
"We had, but now this involves the Military and I am by way of sworn duty torn between my obligations as a soldier and my duty as a citizen and at this point I'm more inclined to lean towards my loyalties to the Military."
"Didn't you just say you'll be the next target? I can provide you with protection."
"Kennedy, no one can promise protection against a committed assassin."
"So what do you plan to do? I don't see you as the type to go into hiding. And after what happened to the General I can't see you reporting back for duty.""
"I'm going to find Tyler Spellman."
"If the police can't find him, what makes you think you can? Maybe for your own safety, I should place you under arrest?"
"Do that and you'll discover the real meaning of ruthless?"
"Are you threatening me, Arthur?"
"Officer Lyons, there are a couple of things you should know about me," said the passenger. "I don't scare easy and I don't give up on my friends."
"Where do you want me to drop you?"
"The next town we pass through will be fine."
"May I ask one question?"
"You can ask, but I can't answer what I don't know. What I do know however is the truth. Sadly I also know there are times when that truth becomes irrelevant."
"That's the hardest part of policing," she answered. "And it's happening here. Your late friend, the General made it clear. There would be no police investigation. We will however continue to look into what has taken place and it would make our job easier if you could assist us particularly in regard to the death of Mrs Rodwell."
"I'll do what I can."
"Appreciate that. And one last thing, Arthur," she said as she slowed the car and pulled off the road. "If there is any way I can assist in your future enquiries, just let me know." She passed a business card across. "It might be simpler if you call me on my cell.
"I'll drop you at this gas station. You should be able to get yourself a ride into town. Good hunting, soldier."
"Thanks, Kenni. I will be in contact." It was a statement he had no intention of honouring.
Arthur had long believed instinct was one step beyond intuition. While it had no scientific or logical basis the belief had served him well both on the tennis court and in his military duties. It came from within often drawing an obscure fact from the circumstances surrounding him. More often than not it lacked reason yet it had, on more than one occasion ensured survival.
Arthur found himself now confronted by dilemma. Reality argued he knew neither the facts nor the person, Tyler Spellman. Sure he'd read the reports detailing the man's activities, but reports were skeletal and insufficient when it came to forming an accurate assessment. Nor was there any way of establishing the existence of a corrupt source within the Pentagon. Suspicion wasn't fact. Yet he knew, lies and liars had spun their web of deceit. Arthur sensed the impossibility of the task he faced. Yet, the prospect of taking no action insulted his every ethical principle. Tyler Spellman was a victim, a colleague and a man who had risked his life for his country. He was no traitor. Why then was he being pursued with such vigour? What knowledge had he uncovered?
What did Arthur know of his superiors? The General, his immediate Commanding Officer was dead and in all probability implicated in whatever was going on. Another potential source had been silenced. His thoughts turned to Tyler Spellman. What did he know of him? History recorded his ruthlessness, he was a killing machine. Could he now be trusted?
Arthur needed time to think and to analyse. But he didn't have time. He too was being hunted. For the first time in his life Arthur Ashe realised he needed help, he was no longer involved in a singles event. Was there anyone he could trust? His fingers located the business card of Kenni.
By bob cullen
"Couldn't do without me?" she asked as he climbed into the car.
"The devil you know..."
"Stokes the same fire, Mr Ashe," she interrupted. "So be warned. If I'm back in, it's on my terms and that is full partner basis. I'm not interested in being your lackey. You decide.
"And might I suggest full disclosure of fact would be an appropriate start."
"Kenni, do you have any idea of who we are dealing with?"
"Someone in a position of extreme power, someone capable of ordering the death of a five-star and some sub-human bastard who did what he did to Fraser's little boy. And for me, that makes it personal. I want the bastard dead, I don't care who he is."
"A word of advice, Kenni," said Arthur. "Eliminate your emotional connection, at least for the time being. We have to find him first. But I make you one promise, when we have him, I'll allow you first interview." It was a worthless promise; Arthur had already vowed the man wouldn't be taken alive.
"He wasn't your God son." Tears were evident. She pulled the car to the kerb.
"I'm sorry, Kenni." He now understood her outburst at the death scene.
"Don't you have any questions?" he asked as they sat in the car outside a diner. She had listened without interruption as Arthur told everything he knew.
"I'm not sure where to begin. Do I start with you and your role as Calin Roberts? Can you talk about the missions you undertook?"
"Depends," Arthur replied.
"On what?"
"Will my revelations be used against me in a court of law?"
"My jurisdiction applies to actions occurring in the US only."
"Can you promise me immunity?"
"Guarantees of immunity are far beyond my authority, but I can give you my word I'll not testify against you." She offered her hand as a gesture of agreement. A smile then formed as she continued. "Should I assume this request is in fact an admission that Calin Roberts has been employed on home soil?"
"Assume what you will. The truth is Calin Roberts obeys his orders, whether they are actioned at home or abroad."
"How about I talk to you as Arthur Ashe and we refer to Calin Roberts in the third person?"
"Will I need a lawyer present?"
"Will I need a bodyguard?"
"We don't have time for banter, Kenni. I'm not joking when I say every second counts. I do however insist on one proviso. Anything said here remains off the record and should you ever bring it up at a later date, I'll deny I ever said it. Is that agreed?"
"National security, I suppose."
"Your sarcasm is noted, and understandable. For me though, it's more a case of self-survival. So get on with your questions. I have nothing to hide. I've not done anything that causes me grief. I'm a soldier, and soldiers are paid to ensure the security and safety of their country and its citizens. Occasionally that duty requires immediate response and sometimes that response involves death. I won't run from that. In that sense, it's no different to what you do.
"The one area I can't discuss is my own performance as Calin Roberts." She nodded her head in acceptance.
"To your knowledge, has Calin Roberts operated on American soil," she asked? "And if so, where and when did those operations take place?"
"I can speak of two instances where Calin was tasked with duties at home. Both missions required the silencing of military personnel allegedly involved in treasonable activity. The first involved a Colonel Alex Bryant, the father of the female soldier General Thomas and Calin were despatched to interview two days ago. The other action saw two soldiers terminated, a Marvin Trent and a Lieutenant Pattison Walford. The Lieutenant's body was later dumped on a farmstead up near the Canadian border."
"Isn't that where this all started?"
"In one sense yes, but in truth no. I'd bet it goes back far beyond that. Allow me to expand on what I've learned these past couple of days. No one is indispensable to these people, and no one is safe. There is neither honour nor trust. The instant you've fulfilled your role you become a liability and they have a unique method of dealing with liabilities. Look at the General. Position and past performance count for nothing." Arthur paused. How far could he trust Kennedy Lyons? Would her sworn duty as police officer and her desire to avenge the death of her God son override any agreement made here?
"Arthur, I can sense your uncertainty. I too sometimes have difficulty in trusting and accepting new colleagues." Her perception of his innermost thoughts troubled him. "But we have to dismiss these doubts and develop trust. My life is in your hands just as much as yours is in mine. And time is against us. So let's get moving. Have you any ideas as to where we should start?"
"I believe we have two options, we either find Spellman or we attempt to trace the line of authority above General Thomas. And I believe winning the lottery without a ticket would be easier than either of those choices."
"Do you have a plan?" she asked.
"No."
"How many people outranked the general?"
"In a military role, not many," Arthur replied. "But then you have the appointed representatives on the appropriations committees and that's where the real power lies. And as we know, where there's power there's corruption."
"How many people are we talking about?"
"Maybe twenty or thirty."
"So that leaves Spellman?"
"Maybe there's another way," said Arthur.
"I'm listening."
"We trap the assassin who's coming after us?"
"And how do you propose we do that?"
"We trust our instincts. And we bank on her maintaining her method of attack. In both her two most recent executions, Mrs Rodwell and the General, she spent time with the victims prior to their deaths. I suspect she draws some form of perverse pleasure from seeing them die."
"What if you're wrong?"
"All our worries will be over."
"I believe Spellman is a better option."
"Where would you suggest we start?" he asked.
"You mentioned a meeting you attended some months ago. You also suggested Spellman was there. Where did that meeting take place?"
"There's no way he would go back there."
"Agreed, but we might learn who else attended."
"How soon can you get us to Washington?"
"Ten hours by road, or three by air. Why?"
"Three will get us there by nightfall. Is there any way you can justify the use of an aircraft?"
"I'll make it personal and suggest it has to do with the killing of Fraser's son. Budget restrictions aren't applied when it relates to actions against police officers or their immediate family."
"Make the call, Kenni." Forty minutes later they boarded a police department helicopter.
At 9.27 their chopper circled above the fifteenth tee of the LONG DRIVE golf course. A minute later they landed. It was the most distant point from the member facilities, about three quarters of a mile from the restaurant. They didn't want to advertise their presence.
In college Arthur had run four minutes and 12 seconds for a mile, he set off at that pace now leaving Kenni far behind. He halted about a hundred yards from the eighteenth green. Darkness offered protection. He surveyed the buildings in front of him. Houses and apartments ran the length of the first and eighteenth fairway, most remained in darkness. Next he looked to the largest building. It housed both the reservations office and the restaurant. Both were bathed in light. He approached with stealth.
He entered the restaurant. To his amazement the concierge's desk was unattended. He glanced at the reservation list. He saw a name he recognised, Serena Bridges. He turned and ran. It wasn't a coincidence.
Arthur established an observation point behind the advertising banners outside the pro shop. Where was Kenni? He heard her grasping for breathe before he saw her. He placed a finger on his lips to ensure her silence. He whispered two words. "They're here."
They watched a restaurant emergency exit door open. Two men emerged, the second man pointing a weapon at the first. Serena Bridges had come to life. The two men headed onto the practice green well away from the door through which they'd come. They were no more than twenty feet from where Arthur and Kenni had withdrawn into the shadows. Arthur formed two fingers into a T, and then nodded to Kenni. The police woman emerged from her position behind the hedge with her police badge thrust in front of her.
"Drop the gun, sir."
"Back off, Officer, this is way beyond your jurisdiction. This is an FBI takedown."
"I need to see some ID," Kenni persisted as she inched closer to the gunman. Her sole intention was to distract.
"I'll have your badge for this."
"And I'll have your gun," said Arthur as he swooped with the speed and force of a diving eagle. His hands wrapped around the weapon before the man could respond. Arthur located the pressure point in the man's neck, he lapsed into unconsciousness.
"Hope you know what you're getting yourself into," said Tyler as he shook hands with a fellow Calin.
"No time for talk," said Kenni. "We've got to get out of here."
"Not without Jess."
"Who the hell is Jess?" demanded the police woman.
"My salvation." Tyler offered no further explanation. "And what's more, I'd suggest we take our sleeping friend along for the ride. Who knows what information he possesses?"
"How do you intend to get her attention?" Kenni asked.
"Give me the gun, one shot and she'll come running," Tyler replied.
"What about him?" she pointed to the man on the ground.
"He'll travel on the Calin express," said Arthur as he hoisted the unconscious man over his shoulders.
"I've a better idea, take the golf cart." Tyler passed the keys to Arthur. "Get going, I'll allow you around five minutes start.
Tyler waited as long as he dared. He was amazed no one had ventured outside to investigate the whereabouts of the two men who had disappeared into the dark.
He was even more surprised that Jess hadn't reacted in some way. Had she been shocked into submission, detained perhaps? What would he do if she didn't respond to the shot? Soon he would know.
He carefully removed one of the inserted putting green golf cups. He aimed the Glock and fired into the cavity every golfer's dreams of finding with his tee shot. Tyler then replaced the support. He hoped the green staff would reassign the pin positions first thing in the morning, thereby burying forever the evidence of the wasted shell.
He didn't have long to wait, she came out the door at full gallop screaming his name. She saw him on the putting green then watched as he sprinted off down the fairway. She chased and caught him within two hundred yards. She stopped and threw both arms around his neck and sobbed. "I thought you were dead."
"We don't have time for this, Jess, keep running." He pulled free of her embrace, grabbed her hand and dragged her back into a full sprint. Had he turned around he would have seen a half dozen carts with lights aglow passing the first tee box.
While wide of the mark, the first shot from behind alerted Tyler to the pursuers. A quick glance highlighted the obvious. There was only one decision. He dived into the nearest bunker. On seeing its depth, he offered silent praise to the course designer. "Run Jess, I'll hold them off as long as I can. Head into the tree line, there's more protection."
A check of the magazine confirmed the futility, it contained only four bullets and in all probability he guessed there were twelve pursuers, two in each cart. Yet again, impossible odds, if only he had one of the old cowboy movie guns. Those six-shooters could mow down an entire tribe of Indians without reload. He smiled at the thought. Reality returned with the memory of the Alamo.
They were now within sixty yards. Death held no fears. Regrets yes, but no fears. Why hadn't he kissed Jess good bye. Told her he loved her. For the briefest moment he contemplated suicide. No, he'd go down a soldier, fighting to the last bullet.
They had slowed and spread out. They were taking no risks.
A spray of bullets from behind him scattered the approaching dozen, they sought protection behind their flimsy carts. Chips of fibre glass fired off in all directions. A second burst came from the side, from the trees on the right hand side of the second fairway. Panic set in, the pursuers regrouped.
| Author Notes | Sorry this chapter is a little long, 2,250 words. There was no obvious chapter ending |
By bob cullen
A voice from behind the green boomed. "Games are over boys. The first round was collateral damage; the carts will need new paint. The second round was merely an indication I'm not alone. The next will bring pain and casualties and the final round is just that, final. Calin Roberts doesn't leave witnesses. And he's not all that keen on waiting for a decision." To emphasise his words, he fired a short volley into the ground.
In the chaos Tyler crawled out from the bunker and belly crawled to a position directly opposite from where the second brace of shots had been fired. He unloaded his four remaining rounds into the ground thirty feet in front of the closest cart. In a maniacal voice, he called. "Can I put one into someone's knee? This time I won't miss."
Total panic erupted. Two of the six carts sped off without their passenger. As the carts blended into the darkness, Arthur watched as two overweight men chased after their fleeing colleagues at a heart attack inducing pace. Arthur then collected Tyler and Jess. Two minutes short of ten after seeing Tyler being marched at gunpoint from the restaurant, the helicopter lifted off.
"Might I suggest we fly dark," said Tyler hoping 'flying dark' would be interpreted as extinguishing all navigational lighting. "I have a feeling this place will be crawling with all sorts of investigators in the next few minutes. And I have no doubt it will be to our advantage to not be found here."
"Where would you like to go?" asked the pilot as he fitted night vision goggles to his helmet.
"Is a beach in Hawaii out of the question?" asked Tyler.
"It's got my vote," agreed Jess.
"What sort of range does your fuel supply offer?" asked Arthur, his every thought focused on escape.
"Two hundred, maybe two fifty miles," answered the pilot. The two Calins looked at each other and nodded. They spoke in unison.
"Sherando Lake." Tyler then added more detail. "It's situated in the George Washington National Forrest just the other side of Charlottesville. Can you make that?"
"It'll be touch and go." That answer pleased the two former assassins. It meant the pilot, like the aircraft would be grounded, and more importantly silenced, at least in the short term.
"Is it possible to fly under the radar?" asked Arthur. "Or does that only happen on TV?"
"Depends on the landscape, but it won't help. Our path will be monitored by the complaints police receive from residents complaining about the noise and potential dangers of a low flying aircraft."
"What's so good about Sherando Lake?" asked Jess.
"It's a safe house equipped with everything we'll need, food, electronic devices and a plentiful stash of available cash," said Arthur.
"Aren't your superiors aware of this location?" asked the pilot. "Won't they be all over the place within minutes of our landing? Or, even worse waiting for us?"
Arthur's hand signals spoke as loudly as any words. Even in the cockpit's darkness Tyler read the message. They shared the same suspicion. Had the pilot left his mic open? If so, he'd just relayed their destination to whoever listened. It was time to act.
Arthur's fingers first pointed to himself, then to Tyler. You or me? Next he opened his palms. When? Tyler nodded as he pulled the Glock from his belt. Now.
Tyler placed the barrel of his empty weapon to the neck of the pilot. "Set down. Or die. One word and you're dead." The menace in Tyler's voice stunned everyone, as did the instruction. The pilot obeyed and landed in a vacant paddock. He grabbed for the keys.
"Wrong move," said Arthur as he launched himself from the rear into the pilot's seat. He then opened the door and pushed. The pilot tumbled onto the ground. His last words: "What the fuck's going on, Kenni?" attracted no response. They were however on police radio. The helicopter lifted off. Not before Tyler lowered the still unconscious Maitre'd to the ground. Arthur's fingers found and disconnected the microphone switch.
"Do you guys know the penalty for hijacking?" asked Kenni.
"It can't be worse than death," said Tyler. "And that's where we were headed. Your friend was transmitting every word we said. Literally, we were flying into the valley of death. And that's not how I see this ending."
"So what now?" the police woman asked.
"It might be wise if we drop you off close to the first town we see. This is no longer your fight, Kenni," said Tyler.
"What is it about you men?" The tone told Tyler this wasn't about sexism. The lady's anger was bordering on rage. He sensed her participation had nothing to do with the alleged activities of Calin Roberts. What had triggered such anger? Had she seen a partner die?
"Sorry, Kenni," said Tyler after hearing Arthur's explanation. Jess reached across and embraced her fellow passenger. "Subtlety never has been my strongpoint. In my life one doesn't always get time to think. All too often, hesitation leads to death. But your Godson gives me one more reason to find these bastards." Conversation ceased as they all withdrew into thoughts of their own. Several minutes passed.
"Tyler," Arthur's voice broke the silence. "One question still intrigues me. Why did you use the name Serena Bridges? That was sheer genius."
"It was far from that, let me assure you. In fact it damn near brought about our undoing. Had you not shown up, I'd hate to think where Jess and I might now be. In all likelihood, we'd be dead."
"Had you not used that name, I wouldn't have known you were here, guess that brings the score back to deuce," countered Arthur. "What I'd like to know though is who here knew about Serena Bridges and what was he doing here?"
"I'd say it was the maitre'd, he hovered around us all night and he was the one who took me outside. And what irritates me now is I didn't pick up on that. Looking back now it's pretty obvious; not only was the guy all over us, the entire restaurant was staged, there were too many waiting staff, too few patrons and stilted conversation."
"Are you always this hard on yourself?"
"Only when I stuff up," he answered.
"It wasn't just you," said Jess. "Remember, I was also there. In fact I was the one who complimented you on the cleverness of your suggestion. And maybe in one sense it did backfire, but it also produced the ultimate bonus, it brought us Arthur and Kenni. We're no longer in this on our own. So in that regard it was genius."
"I'm with Jess," said Kenni
"On that basis, I'll concede," said Tyler. "But I do have one question for you, Kenni. "Do you have any friends down here who'd like to undertake a search of suite 64?"
"I doubt I have friends anywhere after what just happened."
"What about Fraser?" Arthur asked.
"No way, the poor man is arranging his little boy's funeral. He has more than enough on his plate."
"I agree," said Tyler. "And I doubt anything would be achieved by searching suite 64. I'd bet there's already a cleaning team on the way to remove any evidence. These people leave nothing to chance."
"Let's change the subject," said Jess. "We're on our own. We need to focus on what we can do, not on what someone else might do. And I'd suggest ditching this noise box is our first priority.
"She's right, Arthur. It's time to get back on the ground. There's no way we can defend against a military aircraft. We're soldiers, not airmen."
Arthur lit the landing lights. He liked what he saw, miles and miles of forestry in every direction. He needed an opening. In the distance he sighted an old timber cottage. There was no sign of occupancy. The copter's search lights focused on the dilapidated cottage. The front door flapped open in a breeze, there was no glow from internal lighting and the chimney offered no indication of smoke.
A tiny clearing sat behind the house. Deciding it was too small, Arthur opted for the larger space out front. The landing was affected. The flattened grass gave the appearance of having been used recently. A closer examination confirmed the suspicion. Was there anyone around now? Both Arthur and Kenni drew their weapons. In the other hand they carried spotlights found in the helicopter. First they searched inside the house, empty. Next they turned their attention to the area behind the house. Less than a hundred yards from the house they discovered the true purpose of the property. It was a drug farm. A large greenhouse, invisible from the air, housed its multi-million dollar crop.
They were safe, at least until sunrise. Vision from the air would then reveal their presence. Was there a way of concealing both their presence and the helicopter? No sooner had that thought challenged than the idea of utilising the jungle camouflaged netting over the greenhouse as a cover over the helicopter flashed into his mind. Safety could now be assured for some days. They certainly could do with the rest. Moreover it would allow time to plan.
They worked through the night, butchering the greenhouse's camouflage. Fear of discovery ensured they left the roof intact. Come first light, the chopper was securely hidden.
"Now, let's get some rest," said Tyler. "I could sleep for a week." A quick calculation confirmed his need for sleep. In the past seven days he'd survived on an average of less than three hours a night. Exhaustion saw him lapse into a coma like sleep.
By bob cullen
It wasn't the noise that woke him; it was the intense vibrations of another helicopter landing. A check on the wall clock advised he'd slept only four hours. It was enough. Every sense snapped to instant alert. Then he heard voices, raging anger was obvious. They had discovered the damage to their greenhouse.
Tyler attempted to distinguish one voice from another. He counted four, but there well could have been more. They were coming this way, fast. He reached across and woke Jess. There wasn't time to warn Arthur and Kenni. The attackers were too close. Fear swept over him, He was unarmed. He had wasted his last four rounds firing into the ground on the golf course. Calin Roberts would never have acted in such a frivolous fashion. Nor would he have slept through the sound of an approaching aircraft. Where was Calin when he needed him? Then Tyler heard the sound of salvation, the slide of a window opening.
***
The sun hadn't yet appeared over the horizon but the darkness of night had yielded to the nearness of morning. Arthur watched the helicopter set down and then, from the sparseness of his bedroom, observed the panicked response of the arrivals as they discovered the de-walling of their garden.
Their every action reinforced Arthur's assessment, they weren't soldiers they were hired thugs. They lacked in discipline and reacted in anger. Their voices grew in volume and intensity. Violence assumed control. The muscleman led the way as they charged for the house. Arthur slipped through the window, Kenni followed. It was two against four. Arthur drew comfort; with surprise on his side two against one was almost an advantage.
He smiled on seeing their first mistake. They had left the helicopter unmanned. Their second error was even worse. All four charged into the house, they left no back-up.
***
The door burst open. Their hostility didn't concern Tyler, their lack of control did. They didn't talk, they screamed, all four simultaneously, panic and rage combined. There was no leader, no plan, just fear and hate. Fear of the men whose greenhouse had been sabotaged and hate for those who had inflicted the damage.
Tyler knew a gun in a sane hand was dangerous but when in the hand of a madman the same weapon had the potential to reduce a target's life expectancy to a single heartbeat. He experienced the helplessness of a prisoner facing a firing squad. It was too late for words and too late for begging. The countdown to execution had commenced. Where was Arthur? Had he and the police woman, he couldn't recall her name, been taken out?
His eyes found Jess, they sought her forgiveness. A woman's scream shattered the silence, it came from outside. Two of the gunman turned in the direction of the sound. Their foreheads caved in, victims of a head clash with a Police bullet. Their colleagues fell forward, blood spurting from the back of their skulls.
"What were you waiting for?" asked Tyler, relief apparent in his voice.
"Wanted to see how good Calin Roberts was under pressure," Arthur answered.
*
Jess's crying bordered on hysterical. All logic surrendered in the face of reality. Four people were dead and she was an accessory to the killing.
Circumstances no longer mattered. Her every thought centred on the image her brain would carry to her death. The twin sights of a face exploding, and the spray of the victim's brain and blood erupting from the back of the skull. She wanted to throw up but her stomach refused to cooperate.
She pushed Tyler away; she wanted nothing to do with him. Again he'd reverted to Calin Roberts, a man who placed no value on life. The fact he'd taken no part in the shooting was irrelevant. It was his lifestyle. Death would have been preferable to the guilt and memory she knew she'd be burdened with forever.
Jess heard a voice, but the words were incomprehensible. Who was talking to her? Calin had stepped aside and a woman came forward. Who was she? She carried a gun, a weapon she'd just unloaded into the heads of two of the men on the floor.
The slap on her face stunned her. The deliverer of the slap was female and calling her name. "Jess, Jess, it's all right." Calin, or was it Tyler again embraced her. Jess wanted to strike back but she had no energy. She wanted to push him away but she needed support to remain on her feet. And the crying wouldn't stop.
Then she heard someone singing, she'd heard the words before.
Go to sleep, go to sleep
Go to sleep little girl
Go to sleep, go to sleep
My precious white pearl
She wrapped her arms around Tyler and tried to speak. She managed only two words. "I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Jess." Kenni was the first to respond. She reached across and planted a kiss on Jess's cheek. "And I'm the one who should apologise." Jess shook her head and broke away from Tyler's embrace. She then reached out with her hand, the police woman held it.
Arthur had taken no part in the conversation. Ever the professional he'd turned his attention to those on the floor. All four were beyond help. He then scooped up the weapons. Finally, he looked to his companions and rated their performances for future battle. Kenni had been superb, her marksmanship first class. She'd also displayed initiative and authority in controlling the hysterics of Jess.
In contrast, Jess had buckled under pressure. While it was understandable, it highlighted the obvious; she didn't possess the necessary skills for whatever lay ahead. She would be retired from further action. She was the weak link.
During the helicopter flight with the General Arthur had read and studied every Calin Roberts mission report. Tyler had become his idol. He was fearless, flawless in his thinking and planning, ice cold under pressure and a ruthless killing machine, the perfect Calin Roberts. But now Tyler disappointed him, the legend had failed.
He had allowed himself to become emotionally involved with someone. The obvious had become apparent; he had fallen in love with Jess. He now had an Achilles heel, a weakness the enemy could, and would exploit. Her presence reduced his focus. Calin Roberts survived by maintaining a single minded determination, one man, one task. Every external influence was eliminated. It had to be.
They needed to talk. It wouldn't though be a conversation; it would develop into a heated argument. But it had to be done. Survival demanded tough decisions. And there was no time for procrastination.
"Guys," said Arthur. "It's time we started facing facts. Are you up to joining the discussion, Jess?" She nodded.
"Before we go anywhere," said Tyler. "I think we should lay some ground rules." His tone suggested he'd read the mind of Arthur. "And the first rule is this. The minute anyone wants to leave, they go. And the second is the reverse of the first; nobody is forced out against their own wishes. If this is unacceptable, I'll walk out now."
"Not on your own, you won't." The voice was scratchy, but the determination undeniable. She had pulled her hands free from Kenni's grasp.
"Can I state my case?" asked Arthur.
"Didn't they teach you abonalare?"
'Abandon only as last resort," Arthur replied. "That program has been replaced by one called RAOP. It's an acronym for realistic assessment of progress and that is what I'm suggesting."
"We both know the truth, Arthur. Their fancy names mean nothing, it's all bureaucratic bullshit. Every program has one purpose, the protection of the Pentagon policy makers. Abonalare, for example, wasn't about saving your partner. Its real purpose was ensuring your partner wasn't taken alive. A dead man spilled no secrets."
"Are you always this cynical?"
"I prefer the word realistic, Kenni. And I speak from experience. My orders were never committed to paper and they were delivered in whispers. Field operatives were like diapers. Sent in to clear the shit and then cast off as disposable waste when plans went awry.
"Don't misunderstand me, I'm not looking for pity, I knew and accepted my conditions of employment, or what I thought those conditions were. I just wasn't aware of the betrayal clause. I understood the need of denial should I ever be captured, and the torture I could expect, but I always believed I'd be protected on American soil. But I was wrong. I was treated like a traitor and given no explanation. I underwent interrogation, was accused of espionage and beaten extensively. Why?
"Had I failed my last mission? What and where was that mission? I was drugged and brainwashed, leaving me with no memory. Then I was set up on that farm. Set up as a cold blooded killer who would be terminated in the apprehension process. I made the mistake of surviving."
"Are they really that ruthless?" asked Kenni.
"Judge for yourself Kenni, judge for yourself," said Tyler. "They've perfected the practices of destruction of evidence and concealment of truth. And it's all justified by labelling it 'a risk to National Security. Potentially another 9/11.'"
"Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. Maybe it's not what you did or didn't do, but rather some snippet of information you learned," Kenni persisted. She directed her next question to Arthur.
"Who issued you with the instruction to terminate Tyler?" No sooner had the question emerged than a new thought triggered a revised plan of attack. "Perhaps it's time to change tack. Become more aggressive.
"Arthur, how well do you know the Director?"
"I've never met her."
"Perhaps then, it's time you became acquainted."
"Where is all this going, Kenni?" asked Arthur. "I'm afraid we're diverting off course."
"Not diverting, Arthur, just redirecting. I feel it's time for us to stop running and launch our own offensive."
"How do you propose to do that?"
"Not me, Arthur. You."
"I'm listening." While he doubted it would work, Arthur found no fault in her logic. He reached for the phone.
"Before we do that," said Tyler. "We should get out of here. Who knows how long we have until our friends here are missed? We might not get so lucky next time. Arthur, can you fly that little bird?"
"If it's got wings or rotors, I can fly it."
"Let's get out of here."
"Where are we going?" asked Kenni.
"Somewhere closer to Washington," answered Tyler. "That's where it all started, and that's where it will finish."
"Should we take their weapons," asked Kenni?
"We won't win it with weapons," Tyler replied. "We need evidence that proves our claims." Nonetheless they loaded a number of guns onto the helicopter.
"Is that all," said Jess. "And I thought we were in trouble." Her attempt at humour lightened the mood.
By bob cullen
"Please listen carefully," he said the instant the operator answered the phone. "Pass this message on to the Director. It is extremely urgent. I cannot stress the importance of this enough. It must go to the Director, now. My name is Agent Arthur Ashe. She knows who I am. What she doesn't know, is my current assignment details. I'd like to update her with recently acquired information."
He then provided his personnel details. "I'll call back in four minutes and I'd appreciate immediate connection. I'm not exaggerating when I claim this is a National emergency." Arthur severed the connection.
The call was relayed via her personal assistant. Director Paslow briefed her deputy. Against his advice she agreed to take the call. Everything else was put on hold. She waited, the deadline passed. Had it been a hoax, perhaps instituted by the killer of General William Thomas? Was Ashe another victim of the same murderer?
The phone rang; it was Walter Parnell, the Deputy Director. She dismissed him abruptly; patience had never been his strength.
It rang a second time. "Director Paslow."
"Don't talk, just listen." She hoped the voice recognition devices would confirm or disprove the caller's identity. She remained silent.
"There will be no questions. General William Thomas was murdered because of his involvement in a complicated ring of corruption within the Agency. I believe the ring's existence was first discovered by Agent Tyler Spellman in his role as Calin Roberts.
"Two weeks ago Agent Spellman, after several weeks of Guatanamo Bay-like interrogation, survived an attack on his life. Now, both he and I, along with two friends are currently being pursued by assassins. I'm sorry, Director, I have to go. I will keep in contact."
She sat back and replayed the message twice. Instinct argued validity. The voice appeared calm, it issued no threat. What did she know of Calin Roberts?
Roberts was a fictitious creation of one of her predecessors, an operative of immense skill. In point of fact, the role of Calin Roberts had been entrusted to only six agents over the years. From memory both Spellman and Ashe had performed as Roberts. Who were the other four? And where were they now?
Paslow deliberated. Who could she trust? More importantly, who couldn't she? She reached for her keyboard, keyed in her access code and waited. The file she sought had been reclassified. All requests pertaining to Calin Roberts now required Pentagon approval. Inwardly she fumed, the Director had been bypassed. Who had issued this directive? When, and on whose authority had the order been implemented? Why hadn't she been notified? The librarian had no answer. The document had been blocked without his knowledge.
Angered by what she interpreted as a blatant attack on her integrity, Meredith Paslow wished she had someone to talk too. Sadness overwhelmed her as she recalled the one man she truly trusted, her father. If only he were here now? He'd know what to do. How she missed their in-depth conversations. Sure he was still there, but he was no more than a shadow of his former self, and a lifeless shadow at that. She'd go see him. At least she could unburden there, where no one but the walls could hear.
Prior to leaving for the hospital she issued a direction to her assistant. 'If Ashe calls, patch him through to my cell.'
*
In the eyes of most of the palliative care's medical staff, Martin Paslow had ceased living prior to his admission into hospital. Rescued unconscious by his neighbour from his fire ravaged home he had been transferred to the hospital by ambulance. His condition worsened rapidly. In a matter of five weeks vitality had surrendered to total inactivity.
His breathing was assisted. He no longer displayed any form of recognition and rarely responded to physical touch or presence. He was fed intravenously, dosed to minimise pain and sedated at night to ensure sleep and ease the terror of his nightmares. The monitors measuring his vitals all charted healthy readings. Physically, doctors could find no problem. Scans on the brain revealed no abnormality. There was no evidence of stroke, no scarring and no plausible reason for the breakdown. One neurologist suggested a voluntary retreat into seclusion. Another commented on the similarities in her father's symptoms to a drug overdose.
Meredith visited her father at least three times a week, sometimes more. Her schedule however, particularly the past week had been demanding. And now this business involving General William Thomas had seen an extension of her fourteen hour days to sixteen. Guilt set in, she'd not visited her father in six days. She must realign her priorities.
She walked into his room; depression her companion. She hated seeing her father this way, his eyes remained as vacant as a blank wall. Then she spoke. "Dad."
Meredith saw the response. Imperceptible to most, but the eyes actually turned towards her. She sat by his bedside, tears forming in her eyes. She took his cold hand in hers, no response there. Her feeling of inadequacy heightened. Here I am one of the most powerful people in the country and I can do nothing to help the man I love most. She reached over to kiss him and rested her cheek on his. She felt tears rolling down her cheek. It had been a long time since she had cried.
She brushed the back of her fingers against his cheek. She felt moisture, her tears had, she sensed, transferred to her father's face. Self-consciously she pulled away. What if someone walked in? Anger jolted her back to the present. What a selfish woman, here she was thinking about self-image when her poor father was laying here closer to dead than alive. "Sorry, Dad."
"For what?" The source of the words didn't register. First reaction attributed them to her conscience taking voice. An instant later she saw life where a moment earlier lifelessness had resided. Again his vision had focus. A new brand of tears flowed, the prayed for miracle had been delivered. Thank you, God. Thank you. She hugged her father with a passion that threatened to squeeze the newly resurrected life from him.
Before she could respond, her father added in a voice croaky and strained. "Don't let them get to you, too. Remember when you're surrounded by liars, trust your own judgement." He then fell silent; the effort had taken its toll. His eyes glazed over and he started gasping for breath. Prior to calling for assistance Meredith acted on instinct. His words, 'Don't let them get to you, too' troubled her. What did he mean? Had someone GOT to her father?
Recollection of the second doctor's suggestion of drug overdose returned with a vengeance. It took on a new perspective. Had he been drugged? Why, and by whom?
Proving the age old adage, 'old habits die hard,' Meredith removed several cotton buds from her purse. This action prompted another memory, from her first day on duty in the Department's forensic laboratory. The chemist tasked with introducing Meredith to fellow staff members on that first day said. 'Remember my girl, once a forensic technician always a forensic technician.'
It was a practice she still maintained. Her handbag always carried a basic forensic kit, swabs, evidence bags, gloves and scissors. She now swabbed the inside of her father's mouth, just in case. Within fifteen seconds of her triggering the alarm a critical team was by the bedside. Meredith Paslow was asked to leave. Twelve minutes later, the lead doctor informed of her father's death.
Accompanied by the doctor, Meredith re-entered her father's room. The medical staff no longer present, death had triumphed yet again. "May I have a few minutes alone," she asked.
"Take as much time as you need." The doctor left her to bid her farewells. "Call us when you're ready, Director."
The role of Director yielded to that of daughter. Tears would have to wait. First she would find her father's killer.
She surveyed the room in search of evidence. Instinct suggested the room would be cleared both clinically and forensically within minutes of her departure. Again she pondered the source of such instructions.
Three items of interest stood out, the medical charts positioned at the base of his bed, a small trickle of blood where the intravenous connection had been removed and the contents of the fluid bag that had flowed into the blood supply.
The camera on her phone recorded the pages of medical notations while cotton buds absorbed both the blood and the fluid. All she now required was a laboratory and a chemist she could trust. A name from her past came to mind, a brilliant colleague whose reputation and credibility had been destroyed in what was later proved to be tainted and corrupted evidence. The woman had been dismissed. Vindication brought no reinstatement. The Department neither apologised nor admitted error. Meredith hoped her former colleague harboured no bitterness.
Before leaving, Meredith sought time with the hospital's Chief Administrator. He agreed to her request, news of her father's death would be withheld for 24 hours, that would allow her time to notify close family of his passing. Next she called the Democrat leader of Congress, her father had served as Virginia's Democrat representative for more than twenty years. He too agreed to her request. She trusted neither man, she feared the news would be leaked.
She left the hospital with contrasting emotions, one part anger and another resolve. She would find out what happened. All thoughts of Arthur Ashe and Tyler Spellman vanished, her father had become priority.
Meredith made one more call. In the belief her Personal Assistant would ask fewer questions, Meredith chose her over the Deputy Director.
"Sarah." Emotion was obvious. "My father has just passed away."
"Director, I'm so sorry. Can I do anything to help?"
"Can you make some calls for me?" Despite the strain, there could be no mistaking; this was an instruction, not a request. "Advise the Deputy of what's happened and tell him he can, if he needs me, contact me on my cell."
For two reasons she knew this wouldn't happen. Firstly his ego wouldn't allow it, and secondly, she wouldn't answer.
For the first time ever, Meredith turned off her phone. Duty had its limits and those limits had been exceeded. Her father had been killed, murdered. Why? What had he done? Or not done?
For the briefest of moments Meredith contemplated the consequences of what she was about to do. It would bring reprimand, perhaps even dismissal. She didn't care. There would be no distraction from the path she now trod. She was searching for a killer.
*
By bob cullen
Tyler heard Arthur's side of the conversation with the Director. Pity he couldn't hear the Director's voice, recognition may have sparked some memory. Had Arthur referred to a 'her?' Why couldn't he remember? Tyler's frustration deepened as he developed a new understanding of the cruelty of Alzheimer's.
The instant Arthur disconnected, Tyler asked. "What is the Director's name?"
"Meredith Paslow."
"Is she related to Martin Paslow," Tyler asked? Again his memory had leaked a snippet of information. Paslow was a name that triggered recognition.
"Are you referring to Senator Paslow, from Virginia?" asked Kenni. "He is her father."
"We need to find him."
"What is his involvement in all of this?" asked Arthur.
"I'm not sure," Tyler replied. "I just remember meeting with him. I don't know where and I can't recall when."
"Call the Director back, Arthur," said Kenni. "She'll know where to find him."
"It's Arthur Ashe again," he said on hearing the voice of the Director's assistant. "I have information she needs to hear."
"There's a problem, Arthur," she replied. "She's has stepped out of the office."
"Patch me through to her cell then." Arthur waited. A moment later the assistant returned.
"It's not responding."
"Where is she?"
"I don't know." Arthur sensed her uncertainty. He held silent hoping she would continue. She did. "After your call, she went to visit her father in hospital."
"What hospital?"
"I can't answer that."
"For fuck's sake, lady," Arthur exploded. "Think about what you just said. Her phone's not answering. Has that ever happened before." He paused to allow the significance of his suggestion sink in. "Your boss maybe missing, possibly abducted and you're worried about disclosing privileged information. Let the Director's blood be on your hands. I'm not exaggerating when I say every second counts." The assistant buckled.
"Walter Reed." Arthur disconnected, he'd heard enough.
His three companions listened in disbelief as Arthur relayed what he'd just learned.
"What's he doing in hospital?" asked Tyler.
"One way to find out," said Kenni as she reached for her phone. "Anyone have the number for Walter Reed?" With no answer coming she accessed the phone's internet.
"Is that wise?" asked Tyler as the policewoman commenced punching numbers into the keypad. "Do you really think they'll tell you the truth?"
"I think Tyler raises a good point, Kenni," said Arthur. "Besides which I'm not sure it's a good idea to advertise our presence here." She put her phone away.
"They already know we're here," she countered.
"Meredith Paslow and her assistant know we're here, but no one else."
"What then do you suggest?"
"It's time to review what we know as opposed to what we don't know," said Tyler. "Sadly, it's precious little. We know her father is at Walter Reed. Why? We don't know.
"With no answers there," he continued."We look at the other player in the scene, the Director herself. What do we know about her? And more importantly, what prompted her decision to go visit her father? Was it a scheduled visit or a result of Arthur's phone call? Guess only two people can answer that."
"Were this a police investigation, I'd start out at the hospital," said Kenni. "There at least we can obtain definitive answers. We can find out why her father was there and the time she arrived and left. We'd also learn if she was alone. That would at least provide us with a starting point."
"Sounds great in theory, Kenni," said Arthur. "But you're forgetting one thing. You have no jurisdiction here and every policing body in the nation is searching for us. We'd never make it to the front door."
"To me there's one obvious conclusion," said Jess joining the discussion for the first time. "Something about your conversation panicked her. Arthur, did you pick up on anything she said? A change in her tone perhaps?" The tall man shook his head.
"There's only one thing more dangerous than playing the supposition game," said Tyler. "And that's doing nothing. So I'm suggesting we go with my theory. I'll bet all money her father's dead. And furthermore I'll wager the circumstances weren't natural."
"You're suggesting he was murdered, Tyler?" asked Kenni. "Why?"
"Because of his involvement with me," said Tyler.
"You don't know that, Tyler," said Jess.
"I can't prove it, but I know how they operate. I was one of them."
"It's true." Arthur confirmed his colleague's statement. "We called it sowrot."
"Silencing of witnesses, removal of truth." Tyler experienced another memory. "The Department's policy of survival."
"And our Government supported this?" asked Jess.
"It had no choice, September 11 has a lot to answer for," said Arthur. "It introduced an unprecedented factor of fear into the life of every American. Our leaders had two choices, submit to terrorism or fight back. Homeland Security was created to lead that fight."
"Tell me about Homeland Security," said Jess. "I keep hearing the name. But I have no idea who or what it is."
"It's our employer and Meredith is the Director," said Tyler. "It was created by President George Bush after the Twin Towers attack and its prime role is to protect the country against terrorism. Our department was titled Raota, risk assessment of terrorist activities and our particular section was P & R, planning and response. Does any of that ring a bell, Tyler?"
"Not a bloody thing."
"Can we get back to Martin Paslow, surely you're not suggesting he was our enemy?" Disgust was becoming apparent in the voice of Jess.
"Far from it, Jess," Arthur replied. "Based on my own experience and on the little that Tyler's remembered, I'm convinced Martin Paslow discovered evidence of criminal activity within the Pentagon, evidence I now believe he passed on to Tyler."
"There is one flaw in your suggestion, Arthur," argued Kenni."
"And what's that?"
"Surely, if the perpetrators of this scheme were as ruthless as you claim, they would have killed Tyler when he was first detained." asked Kenni. "Real killers don't leave witnesses."
"Unless, of course, they had something else in mind for the victim," Arthur replied.
"Tyler was broken, physically and mentally. He was in no condition to help anyone." Jess jumped to the defence of Tyler.
"Jess, no one's suggesting Tyler was voluntarily involved in any wrongdoing, but experiments have proved behaviour can be coerced with drug usage," said Kenni. "For the moment however, I'd prefer to leave that aside, I'm more interested in Arthur's statement claiming the people planning all of this had something more in mind for Tyler as I agree with Jess. Tyler was, to all intents and purposes, finished."
"The plan I alluded too required no physical action on Tyler's part," explained Arthur. "So if I might, I'd like to go back to the farmstead where all of this began. When I now analyse that action I see it so differently. I see it as the final act in the cover-up. Allow me to explain.
"Let's take another look at the circumstances, both at the farm and leading up to the actual attack. First of all we have the murders of Alex Bryant and Marvin Trent, both attributed to Calin Roberts, aka Tyler Spellman. Then the body of Lieutenant Walford is found at the scene, also allegedly killed by Tyler. Do these three have anything in common? We don't know, we'll never know. But I believe it's fair to assume all three were linked to the investigation Tyler was pursuing for Martin Paslow. I'd even go further in stating Bryant and Trent had integral roles in the scheme and were executed as they'd become liabilities in the eyes of those above them.
"And lastly in placing Tyler at the death scene, they have their murderer. It has all the earmarks of a Departmental assassination."
"That's most impressive," said Kenni. "But it leaves one question. Where is Meredith Paslow now?"
"I'd suggest she's gone somewhere to grieve. Someplace where she can be alone," Arthur replied. "And what's more, I'd suggest she's taken some form of transport most probably from her father's garage. Knowing her reputation I know she'll not rest until she finds her father's killer."
"I'm not so sure about that," said Kenni. "You see, I have a different theory I'd like to detail." Her audience of three waited. Would her case have the credibility of Arthur's?
"While I don't have any knowledge of how your Department operates, I've spent fifteen years in criminal investigation and I'd like to think that experience has assisted in my developing an analytical awareness. Like Arthur's proposal, my theory too is lacking in hard evidence but it carries all of the identifiable markings of typical criminal behaviour.
"A few moments ago I asked why had Tyler's life been spared. Arthur provided an answer, one that is most plausible. I now have a second question. If we now accept that Tyler was apprehended, beaten and subjected to drugged interrogation, surely it's fair to assume he probably offered the name of Martin Paslow to his interrogators. To me that promotes the same question of Paslow. Why wasn't he killed? Did he have a protector? Or was his hospitalisation a result of a failed attempt on his life?
"If I extend this line of thought further I ask myself who would protect him. I come up with a very obvious answer, his daughter, Meredith. That, I must admit, frightens the living hell out of me. So without knowing the Director, I'm forced to assess what I know of her. Does she possess the power necessary to organise an operation of this scale? I'd have to concede anyone in a position of such power could do this.
"My next point of reference is what has been her response to Arthur's initial approach? This concerns me. Let me tell you why. Firstly, she's no longer available for discussion. Is that coincidence or deliberate? Then she goes visits her father. That too is understandable. It could, just as easily, be to ensure he's permanently incapable of providing future evidence. Then thirdly, based on your assumption she goes to his house. Why? Was she going there to obtain evidence? Or was her motive to conceal the truth?
"We need to find her."
"You've mounted a great case," said Tyler. "But I can't see her being involved. She was with him when he died."
"The killer is normally the last person to see the victim alive."
| Author Notes | This chapter may have been posted once before. It has undergone rewriting as the manuscript is now completed |
By bob cullen
Arthur lived up to his claim. Much smaller than the police helicopter, he climbed the drug grower's aircraft to 500 feet and headed north-east. A check on the fuel gauge indicated a three quarter filled tank. Washington was within reach and less than ninety minutes away.
The voice of an Air Traffic Controller snapped them back to alert. The man demanded an immediate identification. "I'm open to all ideas," said Arthur on hearing the call a second time.
"As I see it," he continued, "we have three options. We can ignore it and have military aircraft surrounding us within minutes, respond and try and bluff our way through or ditch it and run like hell." Jess offered the only suggestion.
"Tell them you're from a farm in West Virginia and you're ferrying an injured farm hand to hospital. Advise them the patient's leg is broken and he's in considerable pain. Will that work?"
"I'm about to find out," he replied. He then relayed the message.
"What hospital?"
"Walter Reed." It was the only hospital he knew.
"I'll advise them to expect you," said the controller. "I'll arrange authority for a roof top landing."
"Jess, you're a genius," said Arthur in sharp contrast to his earlier assessment.
Fifteen minutes from his estimated time of arrival, Arthur again contacted Air Traffic Control to notify of engine difficulties. He wouldn't make Walter Reed. He was attempting a forced landing. He provided the co-ordinates.
Twenty two minutes later the ambulance arrived. Instead of facing a patient requiring attention the two paramedics found themselves confronted by armed gunmen. They obeyed the demands of their captors, surrendered their phones and their uniforms. The medics were then tied to the controls of the recently landed helicopter.
Dressed as paramedics, Tyler and Arthur strolled into the emergency admission foyer. Tyler approached the desk, a young assistant greeted him.
"Hi there, about five weeks ago," he commenced. "I brought an old guy in, I think his name was Paslow, or something like that. I promised I'd pop in and visit next time I was in. I was hoping you might be able to tell me where I might find him."
The girl, any woman less than thirty in the eyes of Tyler qualified as girl, came back with a look of sadness. "I'm sorry, Mr Paslow passed away two days ago."
"My memory's not what it once was," said Tyler. "How long ago was it that he was admitted?"
"You were close; it was five weeks and three days."
"Thank you, Miss." Tyler walked away wondering if that had been the day he had been apprehended. He stopped. Another thought came to mind. He turned back and asked. "Did his son ever call by?" Tyler knew no son existed, but he could come up with no better way of enquiring about Meredith's visiting habits.
"He only had a daughter, and God bless her. She was with him when he passed away."
*
Kate Brereton had vanished. Her cell neither answered nor went to voice mail. Her distraught parents provided no help. They'd not heard from Kate since her dismissal, they feared the worst. The disappearance was out of character. Police had been notified, they remained tight lipped. They'd found no evidence of foul play, in fact they'd found no evidence at all.
So many thoughts ran through the mind of Meredith? Was she partly responsible for Kate's disappearance? Had the humiliation of dismissal sent the young woman spiralling over the edge? Had she done the unthinkable and taken her own life? Was she the victim of crime? Had she been silenced? The final thought induced a chill. Would the Pentagon power brokers resort to such depths? She remembered her father, and what she'd just learned about Calin Roberts and the truth became obvious. Death was a tool, an effective method of ensuring silence. And the Pentagon craved silence. The less people knew; the better. Meredith's determination intensified.
She recalled her last meeting with Kate, it hadn't been pleasant. Meetings of termination seldom were. There was anger and argument along with the inevitable questions. Moreover, she now realised, she'd been the executioner, not the jury. She'd played no part in the determining of guilt, she had just delivered the punishment.
"Allow me to resign," pleaded Kate.
"Kate, I'm sorry. The circumstances don't permit negotiation. And in some ways that's to your advantage, former employees can't be compelled to front a corruption investigation." The answer didn't sit well with Meredith, but the decision wasn't hers.
"Am I being accused of corruption?"
"Corruption or incompetence, does it really matter. Your report was flawed. Do you want to be subjected to days of intense allegations? Your career will be destroyed."
"Damn it, yes I do. I want the chance to clear my name." Kate made no attempt to hide her disgust.
"Kate, I truly am sorry, but it's not my decision."
"Don't fob me off. You're the Director, the buck stops with you."
"If only it did." Meredith empathised with the young woman, a mistake had been made; someone had to pay. As Kate had signed the document, therefore responsibility sat with her.
"Kate, I'm just the mouth that delivers the lines fed to me from above."
"But my findings were correct," Kate insisted. "I want the samples reanalysed."
"We can't reanalyse what we no longer possess?" countered Meredith. "All the files and evidence pertaining to this investigation have vanished."
"How convenient, Director. How very fucking convenient." Kate rose from her chair and stormed from Meredith's office. Prior to exit she turned; her face crimson with rage.
"Hope you can live with this."
"Kate, I'm sorry." Meredith's words were lost in the sound of the door slamming.
*
By bob cullen
All trust now surrendered in the face of the abuse of power. And it all tied back to her. Kate Brereton hadn't been incompetent. She had. Moreover she had been neglectful, in relation to sworn duty. She had trusted liars, to the point where her own father considered she too may have been one. Why else had he taken his suspicions to Calin Roberts instead of to her? Then there was Calin himself, or rather the many Calins. They had been employees of her Department. She had failed them also.
She needed some place where she could think. She recalled her father's cabin. Strictly speaking it didn't belong to him, but rather to a friend who now neither needed it nor remembered its existence. The friend was in the final stages of Alzheimer's.
The location was paradise, rugged and mountainous, a short stroll from a large and beautiful lake and blessed by the vast expanses of blue sky overhead. The temperature was chilly, one couldn't expect nature's warmth in March but the last of the snow had melted some weeks earlier. The two greatest pleasures afforded here were the absence of phone reception and the absolute isolation. You listened to nature and searched your own soul. You fished and you ate. You walked and swam. You chilled out. Or you did nothing.
Meredith did none of these, instead she searched her memory. The precious and rare moments she had spent with her father. Had he offered clues? Nothing came to mind. They seldom discussed work. Was there someone else, her personal assistant perhaps? No way. Only a fool trusted someone sleeping with your deputy.
The thought came from left field. If she couldn't trust her own friends, whose friends could she trust? The answer jumped out at her, her father's. Who were they? The man who owned the house was ruled out. But why? Alzheimer's affected the short term memory; friends existed in the long term memory. Would he be able, or willing, to provide a name?
Ten minutes into the visit Meredith knew she had wasted her time. The man couldn't remember her father, let alone his friends. She needed to look elsewhere. But where? Dad, why didn't you come to me? That question, along with her father's last words, 'Don't let them get to you too,' tormented Meredith. Who were the 'them?' In her mind Meredith knew, they were in Washington. In positions of power, and, undoubtedly dangerous.
On the journey back to the cabin Meredith attempted to dismiss her grief, a clear mind was required. On days other than this she would have relished the pleasure of the ride, the scenery, the clarity of the mountain air and the exhilaration of the wind flush on her face.
The bike was old but maintained with the diligence of an enthusiast. It was an off-roader constructed for fun, not comfort. An ideal vehicle for where she was going. It had been a gift for her eighteenth birthday, almost thirty seven years ago. She'd not ridden it in years. Her father still rode it.
The harshness of reality hit home savagely, he'd never ride it again. Tears ran down her face. Once more her thoughts centred on her father, and his work. Who had he crossed? What had he discovered? A new thought emerged.
She pulled to the shoulder of the road and cursed her stupidity. Why hadn't she taken the hard drive out of her father's computer? Realisation eased her mind, she remembered the computer stored beneath the flooring in the cabin. If secrets were recorded anywhere, they'd be there. Back on the road she pressed the throttle to its limit. There was no risk of speeding, the bike odometer only read to eighty miles per hour and it had never exceeded sixty.
Paranoia ensured she parked the bike well away from the cabin. Though she had never been a field operative, she'd read enough reports to develop an awareness of the need for absolute security. Caution had become a way of life. From a distance she observed the cabin and compared it to the photographs she carried. She'd taken the photos prior to leaving. It was as she'd left it. The position of the veranda chairs hadn't been moved, the window blocks remained where she'd left them. She then repeated the process from behind the cabin. The same result. Now she entered.
Once inside she tore the photos into tiny pieces and threw them onto the timber sitting in the fire grate. Tonight they would vanish in the flames of a fire. Meredith located the computer. It came to life. She hoped her father had retained the same password. She punched in 'Sail The Red Im.' The password was an anagram featuring the names of the two women in his life, his late wife Lisa and his daughter Meredith. A small outboard boat called The Red Im, sat by a jetty.
With entry gained, Meredith set about searching the computer's files. Where to begin? Aware of her father's obsession with secrecy, she sensed the document, if indeed there was such a document, would be secured by a series of subterfuges blocking access. She would need help.
Meredith scanned through the document library. Nothing caught her eye. Nothing that is, until she saw an entry bearing the number, 957091. It was her birthdate reversed, July 19, 1959. She opened it and read.
My Dearest Meredith,
I hope you never get to read this. If you do, it's more than probable I'll be dead, murdered, in all probability by someone in your Department.
My fate was sealed the day I approached someone you know well, an employee of yours named Calin Roberts. I contacted Roberts when I received information alleging the death of a soldier named Alex Bryant was most suspicious. My unidentified informant claimed Alex Bryant had uncovered evidence of massive web of corruption involving three people, a senior ranking officer within the military and based at the Pentagon, a Senator in Washington and someone in a position of power in your Department. No names were offered.
Sadly, I never heard from either my informant or Roberts again. Efforts on my part to locate Roberts yielded little success. In fact the opposite occurred. I received an anonymous threatening phone call suggesting I desist from making further inquiries. Roberts had turned rogue, I was told.
As a father, I'm ashamed to admit, I considered the unthinkable. I doubted my own daughter's integrity and to my detriment I took my enquiries elsewhere. Suffice to say, if you're now reading this, that misjudgement cost me my life.
I would suggest you locate Roberts, assuming he's still alive and fully investigate the allegations. I believe my death adds credence to everything I was told.
Again I apologise for my lack of faith in you,
Dad
By bob cullen
Her eyes were swamped with tears and her mind overrun with guilt. Had she become so unapproachable her father no longer trusted her? Was I so self-absorbed in my own importance that I forfeited my family values. 'Please forgive me, father.'
Meredith's motivation took on new resolve. 'Dad, this is now for you.'
The fact her father had referenced, and indeed endorsed Calin Roberts as a credible source prompted so many questions. Which Calin Roberts had contacted her father? She knew there were at least two surviving members who'd acted as Roberts. Were there more? Who had threatened her Father? And who had he approached with his later enquiries?
On a piece of paper she'd taken from the drawer beneath the computer she listed two sets of names. The list on the left were dead, those on the right remained alive. Her father topped the non-survivors list. His name followed by Alex Bryant, Marvin Trent and lastly General William Thomas. Intuition screamed loud, there had to be some connection. Calin Roberts sat alone on the right hand side of the paper. In brackets beside the name she added the number two. Meredith hoped one of Calin's had the answers. All she now needed was a way of contacting him.
Meredith sensed the column on the left would grow longer and if the people alleged to be behind the allegations of Roberts had their way, the number on the survivor's side would decrease by one. She pencilled her name beneath Calin's. She then added another name, Kate Brereton.
What to do? The answer was both simple and obvious, immediate action was required. The difficulty arose in processing the plan from thought to practice. She couldn't do it from here. But the cabin would serve as her base. She'd head back to Washington. First though, she needed a bank, an untraceable bank.
Meredith returned to the drawer where the computer had been stored. Something about the drawer appeared odd. The drawer's flooring panel was a different timber from the drawer's side walls. Closer inspection provided the answer. She saw screws. When released, the timber slid backwards revealing its gold mine. She had located her bank.
The cash was bundled in two inch blocks, a quick calculation suggested around fifty thousand. Where had it all come from? A Smith and Wesson sat next to the cash. She checked it out, it was loaded. Meredith took that also. She mounted the bike to go shopping.
Prior to leaving, Meredith attacked her hair with scissors; the meticulous hair styling gave way to shaggy and unkempt. She slung a large canvas bag over her shoulder. She removed all make-up with the exception of lipstick. It was layered on as if applied by a cross-eyed beautician. Next, again in front of a mirror, she practiced her walk. Now she not only dressed like a drunk, she had perfected the gait, three steps forward and one sideways. She was almost ready for her reappearance in the most powerful city in the world.
On the outskirts of D C she found what she wanted, a rundown mall with a number of second-hand clothing stores. She entered the one run by The Salvation Army. It was one of the few charity organisations she trusted. She needed at least six different outfits. With the selections completed, she exited the change room. The almost ready had graduated to the completely ready. Meredith now believed she was as good as invisible, no one would recognise her.
She argued about the price. "Thought you people cared about the poor." In anger Meredith threw her money on the counter. Her outburst though hadn't finished. "You're just like the rest of 'em. S'all about the profit; screw you."
"You left something in here," the young shop assistant called as she cleared up the mess the woman had left behind. It was too late; the woman had vanished into the flow of pedestrians.
The girl handed a sealed envelope to the store manager. She opened it to find two words, 'Thank You.' Beneath that card lay $2,000.
"Who was she?" asked the girl.
"Don't know, but she reminds me of someone, I'm sure I've seen her somewhere."
She found a park bench and pulled out a bottle wrapped in a crumpled brown paper bag. It contained water. She raised it to her lips. Passers-by looked on in disgust. Another homeless old drunk. What they didn't see was the phone hidden by the bottle. For the first time since fleeing the hospital she switched the phone on and scanned through a long list of messages. Most expressed condolences for her father's passing. They were ignored, to be handled at a later time. There were five from her deputy, demanding she make contact. He too would be sorted out at the appropriate time.
Meredith found what she wanted, fifteen messages left by her personal assistant. She scanned through them quickly. One demanded immediate attention; it bore the name of Kate Brereton. Meredith's eyes welled up as she read; the young woman had been found, hanged in a hotel room in Vegas. The column of survivors dwindled by one whereas the list of victims lengthened. There was no mention of Calin Roberts, or Arthur Ashe. How could she initiate contact with him?
Meredith's suspicions intensified. Why Kate Brereton? How had she been tied into the Calin Roberts investigation? Memory provided the answer. Meredith had mentioned Kate's name to her assistant. From there it had no doubt flowed into the ear of the Deputy during bedtime discussions.
'If you can't defeat your enemy, use him.' This had been one of her father's pet expressions. She understood the strategy but wasn't sure how she could implement it. Meredith knew communication with Calin was her most urgent need. She also knew her deputy was now her enemy. Was there any possible way of combining these two realisations? Could she provoke her deputy into promoting her cause? She smiled; men had two weaknesses, sex and ego. She'd leave the sex to her assistant. She'd attack his other vulnerability.
She dialled his personal cell. It was a number known by very few, Meredith had found it on her assistant's phone. It answered immediately.
"We still on for tonight, honey," he answered. Meredith could think of nothing more repulsive.
"No."
"Where are you?" His tone conveyed shock; it wasn't the voice he had anticipated.
"That's none of your concern, Walter. I've taken possession of my father's diary and it makes for good reading. Everything he said has is fact eventuated. I've also been in contact with both Calins and the case against you is comprehensive to say the least. Guess it's now a case of who has the most credibility, you or me." Meredith disconnected and threw the phone in the first trash can she passed.
She knew how he'd respond. He had something she didn't, access to media. He'd call a press conference.
A new thought surfaced. She located a public phone in a hotel lobby, she called Walter's number again. It was busy. She then tried her assistant's personal cell, it too responded with the engaged chime. The man was so predictable. Meredith then called her own office line. It answered on the third ring.
"Director Paslow's office."
"Tell him killing Kate Brereton will get him life." Meredith paused; she had trouble controlling her anger. She forced herself to remain calm. She had to sow the seeds of dissent; divide the enemy. "Listen to me, Delta, you've got one chance. Go now, before it's too late and broker a deal with the DA, because if you go to court, you too will get life." On hearing the line click dead, Meredith shuffled across the lobby mumbling incoherently. Patrons cleared a path for the old drunk.
Meredith rose from the park bench, took another sip of water and then half walked and half staggered across the park to a public toilet. Fifteen minutes later she emerged, another person. The hair, a wig she had located in the Salvation Army store, was long and dark, the clothing more in line with a young business executive and the stride brisk. She wore little make-up and fashion glasses shaded her eyes. An expensive designer bag hung from her shoulder. She was neither beautiful nor plain. But she was in a hurry.
By bob cullen
Meredith strode into the Sofitel Hotel on 15th Street and approached the reservation counter. She paid cash and booked for two nights. She provided a credit card and Canadian driver's licence for identification. Though she had never worked in the field, she'd read enough field reports to understand the need for deception. And after years of perseverance she had mastered the practice. Now the skill was being put to the ultimate test. Her life depended on it.
She located the television remote and found CNN. She wondered how long she'd have to wait. More than an hour had passed since they'd spoken on the phone. Having observed the man for years, she knew his routine. He would be making calls, gathering his forces and building his case. He'd not go public without the support of his senior colleagues.
Meredith made one more phone call. She hoped it wouldn't go to voice mail. Her hopes were dashed; she heard the recorded message. 'Daniel Andrews. I'm currently unavailable, leave your name and I'll get back to you at the first opportunity.'
"It's been a long time, Dan."
She wondered if he would respond. They'd not crossed paths or spoken in weeks. She had no doubt he would, or perhaps already had received a summons from her deputy demanding his support.
She lay back on the bed and waited.
Fifteen miles away in a rundown off-the-highway motel, far less luxurious than the Sofitel, Jess, Tyler, Arthur and Kenni sat around a table eating a pizza. Conversation was minimal. The death of Martin Paslow had removed the final vestige of hope.
"Come on guys," said Jess. "We can't give up. There has to be proof somewhere."
"Stop talking, Jess." Urgency was obvious in the voice of Kenni. "Can someone turn up the television?" All eyes swept to the screen. Below the pictured face sat the name Meredith Paslow. Arthur found the volume switch.
"...Paslow is missing. Her father's death is now under investigation. Hospital surveillance cameras indicate Director Paslow was her father's final visitor. The time of death is yet to be determined. It is possible Martin Paslow was deceased prior to his daughter's visit." A panel of five, four men and one woman stood behind the Deputy Director as he spoke. He was seated at a desk and reading from a teleprompter.
"In an endeavour to maintain the Agency's integrity throughout this enquiry, Director Paslow has stepped down and I have, in her absence been appointed as Acting Director.
"Meredith, we all sympathise with you in your grief. Losing a parent is never easy, but I call on you and your professionalism to come forward. You are our Director, our leader and we need you in this time of crisis. You are not, and I stress this unequivocally, a suspect but rather a crime witness.
"Lastly Director, I would like to quote the adage you so frequently invoke; 'Only the guilty fear the truth.'
"Meredith, as your colleague I urge you to come in and talk. As your friend, I assure you, I am here to help. Please contact me. You have my personal number."
"Was that the plea of a frightened man?" asked Kenni as the image of the Acting Director faded from the screen. "Or was it an accusation of guilt?"
"He's not frightened," said Jess. "He's angry. He delivered that line about the guilty fearing the truth with the cold-hearted precision of an assassin honing in on the head of his target."
"And with the same degree of hostility," added Arthur.
"Could it be a stitch-up?" asked Kenni. "Intended perhaps to flush us out?"
"Doubt it, there was no pretence there," Jess replied. "That was undisciplined hatred. You can't fake that." Turning to Kenni, Jess asked. "Do you still think she's guilty?"
"She's not, but he is," said Tyler. "And you can bet he's got some very powerful friends behind him. But he's also aware of the evidence building against him. He needs to stop Meredith before she can stop him by delivering the truth. And I'd bet the thing that concerns him most is the knowledge there is no such thing as loyalty in treachery. Every minute delayed increases the risk of betrayal. I'd suggest it's probably a good time to talk to him."
"And say what?" asked Jess.
"Make an offer to trade some information," said Tyler.
"You're not serious?" Jess was now on her feet ready to argue. "The bastard's trying to kill us and you want to enter into discussions with him?"
"Jess." Tyler smiled at Arthur's intervention. Arthur was on his wavelength. Arthur understood Tyler's thinking, and he knew it made sense.
"If I didn't know Tyler, I too would question the sanity of the suggestion. But not only do I know him, I've studied his record and I know how he operates and his record in the field is unmatched.
"Allow me to speak from my own experience, Jess. Our line of work is far from pretty, we deal with the most evil and ruthless lowlife ever created. The only thing we can trust is our own judgement and sometimes even that fails us. When that occurs, we're dead. Like I said, it's not pretty, but it is a job that has to be done. Jess, I'm not proud of all that I've done, and I'm sure Tyler feels the same. With the exception of this case, I have always obeyed orders and I believe my actions have made this country a safer place to live. My orders in this instance were to execute Tyler Spellman on sight."
"Don't allow your ambition to exceed your ability, brother," said Tyler.
Arthur continued, a smile on his face. "If I've learned one thing in this job it's the knowledge that it's not always the bullet that brings victory. Sometimes subtlety is an even more powerful weapon." Judging on her body language, Jess was far from convinced. Tyler observed her animosity. She glared at both him and Arthur as if they were now enemies.
"Jess, Arthur is right," said Tyler. "Sometimes, subtlety is a weapon, though in this instance, I'd call it deception. It's the only thing we have left. All of our witnesses are now dead, or in the case of Meredith Paslow devoid of credibility. We are rapidly running out of resources and places to hide. In truth we are beyond desperate. Our one hope now lies in the discrediting of the enemy, namely Walter Parnell."
"How do you plan to do that?" demanded Jess.
"Good afternoon, Miss," Tyler had said the moment the receptionist had taken his call. "You have ten seconds to connect me to Walter Parnell, before I disconnect. I have information on Director Paslow." He wasn't sure how the girl would respond. Surely transferring a call directly to the acting director would bring a reprimand. As would the alternative if indeed the call was genuine. She sensed authority in the tone of the caller, she backed that judgement.
"Director Parnell." The arrogance in the response didn't surprise Tyler. It matched the impression seen on the telecast earlier.
"Afternoon, Director. My name is Tyler Spellman, I take it you know the name. Perhaps you know me better as Calin Roberts. I think maybe it's time we had a chat."
"About what."
"I can deliver the dirt on Paslow, possibly also her whereabouts. Think about it. I'll call later."
Meredith dozed off. The voice, rather than the sound woke her. She snapped to instant alert on seeing its source, the television screen. Anger was her first emotion. The bastard was in her office and seated at her desk. A support cast of five stood behind him. The presence of her personal assistant surprised Meredith. What was her role? The obvious became apparent; she provided the key to the Director's personal files. Next she recognised Daniel, disappointment and understanding swept through her. She knew now why he'd been unavailable. She felt betrayed, years of friendship and detailed knowledge had been cast aside. The presence of the remaining three didn't surprise, they had long been associates of Walter.
As he delivered the line; 'Only the guilty fear the truth.' The camera swept to the banner positioned high on the wall above her desk. In bold print, the same quote was displayed. The Director had achieved his purpose. Credibility rode with the man on camera. Guilt was a companion to the one on the run. In the eyes of those watching, she was as good as convicted.
Once more she donned the bedraggled clothing of the drunk. She avoided the hotel foyer and exited through a rear door into a service alley. Four delivery vehicles were awaiting access to the hotel kitchen loading dock. All four drivers were well away from their trucks drinking coffee and eating toast, supplied by kitchen staff. As she passed the second truck, she heard a phone chiming. No driver heard, or if they did breakfast, was considered more important. Meredith strode around to the passenger's side door. No one showed any interest in the old woman. She opened the door, reached in, grabbed the phone and disappeared within a matter of seconds. She had her means of communication.
By bob cullen
Meredith fell in with the flow of visitors strolling towards the White House. She found comfort in crowds. Reality, in the form of the plethora of surveillance cameras surrounding Lafayette Park, ensured her presence would be recorded. She wanted to be seen, this was to be the old drunk's final appearance. She located a park bench, already occupied by a couple of young lovers. She sat next to the girl, uncomfortably close and started talking to herself, loudly and with coarse crudity. The couple rose and left, she had the seat to herself.
She had two calls to make, Daniel and Acting Director Parnell. Who should she call first? Could Daniel be trusted? She wanted to believe in him, but his presence behind Parnell triggered immense doubt. There was only one way to find out.
"Daniel Andrews." The phone answered on the first chime.
"Remember the night we almost made love." It never happened. A burst of conscience on Daniel's part saw him retreat. She remembered his anguish and his explanation. 'I can't do this to Karen.' Her respect for him grew. For her it had been lust, for him it would have been betrayal. Amazingly their friendship endured, at least until his show of support to Parnell.
"Meet me there. Alone."
There was no opportunity to respond, or to trace. The line had gone dead. Not so his memory. It was so long ago, yet it still occupied one of the more predominant never-to-be-forgotten occasions in his life. In many ways it defined the most significant milestone in his life, the moment he accepted responsibility for his actions and lived up to his commitments.
He turned his thoughts to Meredith, to the then and the now. She had been his best ever friend. She shared his innermost secrets, his investigations and his dreams. He trusted her as no one else, not even Karen. Meredith was, in every sense his soul mate. And she reciprocated those values. They relied on and believed in each other. Sure, as the years passed and her career advanced, they saw less of each other. The catch-up drinks and daily chats became unscheduled weekly meetings. These in turn extended into monthly get togethers.
He hadn't seen her in months. They had spoken the day her father was admitted to hospital. She was distraught. She knew foul play was involved, but she didn't know how or why? She asked Daniel to make discreet enquiries. He had, he found nothing. Meredith didn't accept this. For the first time ever she became secretive. Almost as if she had something to hide. Her silence gave birth to doubts. Was she attempting to protect her father from some accusation? Or was she more interested in saving her own career? He couldn't believe she would do either.
Next Daniel examined her father. He'd meet him many times and had never met a more honest human being. He saw where Meredith's values had come from. The man endorsed the principles and ethics of years gone by. He was proud of his country, admired the achievements of his daughter and still worked seventy hours a week.
Widowed in his early thirties he had raised Meredith as a lone parent practising law while she was at school. Daniel saw more of Martin Paslow than he did his own dad. The man didn't attend church but he was, in the eyes of young Daniel, a better Christian than anyone he knew. He assisted those in need, cared for his community and acknowledged the existence of his Creator.
Why hadn't she called him to advise him of her father's death? Was she in shock? Were the circumstances suspicious? He could have helped. Daniel didn't for one moment believe the allegations of Walter Parnell, but he couldn't refuse the summons to appear with him on camera. He now understood Parnell's reasoning; Daniel's presence was designed to undermine Meredith's credibility. Her 'best friend' was siding with the enemy.
Realisation came as he returned to his desk. The summons had been crafted with two purposes. The first spoke of Daniel's apparent betrayal, the second would entice some form of response from Meredith. He understood the consequences, every call received would be monitored and every move he made would be shadowed. They believed he would lead them to Meredith. He would die first.
How could he contact her and avoid detection? The phone was out. Unless of course, he too employed the deception game. It just might be a bit of fun. He dialed the number. As expected, Meredith's assistant answered. Daniel spoke with urgency and in a hushed tone, as if he didn't want anyone around him to hear. "Delta, its Daniel, I need to get an urgent message to Meredith. I take it you're in touch with her."
"What's the message?" Even though she sat in an office four floors above him, Daniel imagined he could see the smirk on her face.
"Yes, I'll be there. 4.30. Can you send it right now? Thanks." Now Daniel was smiling. He went to the cafeteria and ate lunch. Surveillance cameras recorded each bite.
A minute later the details were delivered to the Acting Director. Within ten minutes he was organising an apprehension squad. One decision was absolute, he would lead the party and he personally would make the arrest. And television cameras would record that action. His plans were interrupted by the phone.
Fifteen minutes had passed since she spoke to Daniel. She still stood in the midst of the crowd staring at and photographing the most famous home in the nation. She had no way of knowing what his response had been. She had hopes but no certainty. She dialed the second number, it too answered on the first ring.
"Director Parnell." The arrogance in his voice irritated her. He had no right to assume leadership. Or was it a deliberate ploy to unsettle her? Very few people had this number. Had he on seeing the out-of-area ID guessed it would be her and he was now simply intent on antagonising her further.
"A bit premature aren't you Walter. But enjoy it while it lasts."
"Might I suggest you enjoy your freedom while it lasts, because I have the impression it won't last too long. Could even end before this day is out," he added. His final line concerned her. Was that an indication that Daniel really had betrayed her trust? She didn't want to believe that, but she had to be prepared for it.
"I make you one promise, Walter. Only the guilty fear the truth." She then disconnected.
She slumped down among the crowd. The people surrounding her allowed her some space. In less than a minute she transformed. She ripped off the vagrant's outfit. Beneath it she wore a stylish business suit. A blond wig covered the dishevelled hair and high heels replaced the cheap runners. Large designer glasses hid most of her face.
"It's a TV commercial," she said to the stunned observers. "The message will be: 'At this address we can change the world in forty seconds.' Meredith walked away. She left one indication of her presence, the phone she had stolen earlier from the truck parked in the service alley. Had anyone watched her they would have seen her enter the Sofitel. Fifteen minutes later she departed, a camera-toting tourist, one of the many thousands of dollar-spending visitors clogging the streets of Washington every day.
Her next step was fraught with risk. She had to talk to Daniel. She watched him emerge from the building carrying a brief case. She then saw the pursuers. He was being tailed. Why? Didn't they trust him either? Several minutes later she saw three suburbans exit the underground car park. They too followed the direction Daniel had taken on foot. And they were all going the wrong way, the rendezvous she'd suggested was east and they were heading west. Relief flooded through her. She followed at a discreet distance. She knew where they were going, to the Smithsonian, the National Museum of Natural History.
What a good choice, lots of people, lots of police and lots of officialdom, the perfect location for confusion. She watched as Daniel entered. Less than two minutes later she saw the three Suburbans pull to the kerb. Within five minutes an additional fifteen police vehicles had the entrance cordoned off. No one could enter or leave. Six uniformed officers stood by the door. Meredith waited and watched from a safe distance.
By bob cullen
Daniel wondered if he could pull it off. He was an analyst, not an action man. To date, everything had gone precisely as he'd planned. Though he hadn't actually sighted the tail. He knew it was there. Furthermore, he knew there would be back-up.
Once inside the museum he headed to the bathroom. There he donned the police uniform, a relic from his distant past. He served three years as a Washington Police Officer prior to transferring to Homeland. Its fit was a little tight. It reemphasised the need for exercise and diet. Comfort wasn't a luxury he could afford. He waited ten minutes in the cubicle. Re-emergence saw his hopes realised. The Museum was swarming with police officers. He was one of many.
Meredith watched the Museum's front door open and the uniform emerge. She smiled. The brief case carrying planner had pulled it off. Not one of the uniforms on front door duty cast a second glance at their 'colleague.'
Without hurry, he walked back along Madison Drive onto 15th Street in the direction of the White House. Elated at his own brilliance, he walked in a world of his own. He would now be able to honour his commitment with Meredith.
About one hundred yards from the Sofitel Hotel an older woman tourist, carrying a heavy camera and loaded with souvenirs brushed passed him. Her words, "Room 708," interrupted his daydreaming. It took him several seconds to realise exactly what she had said. Who the hell was she? Was it a casual remark, or perhaps the offer of a prostitute? Something about her seemed familiar. He watched her walk into the stunning hotel foyer. He followed. She took the stairs; he rode the elevator.
He stood by the stairwell door and waited for the woman's arrival. He paid scant attention to the vagrant exiting from an adjacent elevator. What was such a tramp doing in a five star hotel? Was he about to witness a crime? What should he do? He watched as the woman stopped in front of room 708. She produced a security card and opened the door. Sheer disbelief followed as he recognised the voice. "Do come in, Daniel."
"What the hell is going on, Meredith?"
"I wish to God I knew."
"Come in, don't just stand there, you never know who might be watching." Meredith closed the door behind him.
"Been stood up again, I see," said Tyler as Parnell answered the phone. They had all watched the television coverage of the alleged terrorist scare at the Smithsonian. And they agreed it was no terrorist exercise. There were neither air support, swat teams nor the influx of military in attendance. Its intention was more specific, they were after Meredith Paslow. "You did look good in your flak jacket though, Walter, as you lead your troops into the building. I see you're now describing it as a training exercise. But we both know the truth, don't we, Walter? The lady outsmarted you again. My offer still stands, but not for much longer."
"What do you want?" the man snapped.
"I'll be happy to see the truth, Walter. What does Meredith's slogan say? Only the guilty fear the truth.
"Before this night is over, Walter, we'll teach you the meaning of fear." Both girls looked at Arthur; never before had they heard such venom in his voice.
Walter Parnell sat at his desk, fuming. The day had been a disaster. Many in the media had attacked his press conference. They talked of his arrogance in assuming leadership, the insincerity in his expression of sympathy and his accusatory tone in implying her father may have been alive when she entered the ward but was deceased when she left.
What was he supposed to say? It was fact. She was with her father when he died. And she demanded no autopsy. Then she went into hiding. Each and every action was consistent with the typical reaction of a killer. He'd said no more. Yet he was being criticised. Fuck them!
As for his assumption to leadership, wasn't that the logical step? He was her deputy. And the prospect of waiting months until a Senatorial committee sat and appointed her successor seemed irrational. Again, there had been no impropriety. He'd shown leadership rather than assumed it unjustly. Again he cursed his critics.
What disturbed him most, however, was the betrayal of Daniel Andrews and the subsequent trap he set. Andrews owed his loyalty to the Agency, not to the woman who had killed her father. The man's career was finished. Like the bitch he sided with, he too would go to prison.
One of the unjust burdens of leadership was accepting responsibility for the incompetence of those on the lower rungs of enforcement. Walter cursed them. Why should he bear the blame for their lack of ability? They had allowed Daniel to escape, not him. He wasn't guarding the door.
Now, Calin Roberts had added his name to the list of tormentors. Roberts was a name he knew well. He had read every file. He had protected him in Senatorial and Congressional inquiries when missions went awry. He had argued, against Paslow, for the necessity to maintain the persona and now this was how he was repaid.
Calin Roberts owed him, not Meredith Paslow. And now Roberts was supporting the one who had opposed his very existence. Or was he? Hadn't he offered to 'deliver the dirt on Paslow?' The tone of the second conversation carried a degree of sarcasm. 'Been stood up again? The lady stood you up again.' Was Roberts playing a game? Good guy one minute, bad guy the next. And finally, the hostility in the threat of Arthur Ashe. Two can play that game, vowed Parnell.
He directed the worst of his anger at Meredith Paslow. She had thwarted his ambition so many times. She had taken the Director's job that should have been his. In the eyes of Walter her name, Paslow, rather than her ability had won her the position. She was the daughter of Senator Martin Paslow. And Paslow sat on the appointments panel and died at the hands of the one he had appointed.
His phone rang. It was Delta. The sound of her voice brought a smile to his face, a smile that vanished on hearing the message.
"Calin Roberts just called. Said there's a black Buick illegally parked on the northern side of G St between 10th and 11th someone will meet you there in five minutes. He said you must come alone."
"Be careful, Walter."
He called security. "Get me surveillance on G St between 10th and 11th and I need it now. There is a black Buick, is it occupied and if so by how many? Also advise if there is anyone loitering nearby."
Next, he called for a couple to stroll past on the southern footpath.
Both reports came back negative. What was going on? With less than a minute to the deadline, an agent with a physique similar to Walter approached the vehicle. The Acting Director watched the proceedings through binoculars from his office window. As the substitute attempted to open the driver's front door, two shots rang out. The first hit the man by the Buick door on the right foot. The second penetrated the window six inches from where Walter stood.
A moment later, his phone rang. He answered it. Long before he heard the voice, he knew who was calling.
"Calin."
"If I wanted you dead, you would be." It was Arthur Ashe, the voice clearly identifiable. "My shooting is like my backhand down the line, it always goes exactly where I aim."
People ran from all directions. Paramedics attended to the man on the footpath. There was a deal of blood but he walked unaided to the ambulance.
In his office, Walter sat at his desk, his fear now real. Delta stood by his side, crying. Five colleagues from nearby offices had run to assist. All eyes appeared to be drawn hypnotically towards the hole in the panelled glass window.
Apart from inquires of health, there was little conversation. Walter's raised hands had silenced the group. When he spoke, it wasn't conversation, it was a non-negotiable order.
"Both these incidents are to go unreported, at least for the time being." He saw signs of dissent. "This is an order. I believe these attacks could well be linked to the disappearance of Meredith Paslow and the death of her father. As these are both high priority investigations, I feel any distraction from the major line of inquiry could well jeopardise the entire inquiry.
"If we look at the circumstances here, and we look at them rationally, they are, in my opinion, the work of professional assassins. And these people don't miss. Had I been a genuine target, I'd now be dead. But no, this wasn't an assassination attempt. The prime purpose of this exercise was to extract publicity. And we'll not give them that. So, officially, my friends, this never happened. And if I hear word on the street contrary to this instruction you will all be looking for new jobs.
"Do I make myself clear?" There were nods all round. "Good evening, gentlemen. And have a good night." Turning to one of those present, Walter added. "Get someone to attend to that tonight?" He pointed to the window, and then walked from the room.
By bob cullen
The two gunmen dissembled their weapon with the efficiency borne of well drilled precision. They picked up the single spent cartridge and were gone from their respective sniper's perch before the meeting formed in Walter's office. Searching investigators would neither find evidence nor location. The shooters were back on the street less than two minutes after the silenced shots found their targets and long before the arrival of any police presence. The absence of sirens stunned them. It made no sense. The obvious became apparent, the attack had gone unreported. Why?
No one paid any attention to either of the aging, long-haired hippies with battered and uncovered guitars slung over their shoulder. The walker's knew their instruments played no music. They housed tools of a different trade. To observers, the two men appeared hung over. A result, no doubt of either too much wakki tobakki or an over indulgence of jaundiced juice. They headed in different directions. Anyone who saw them would have suggested their sole intent appeared focused on finding a new busking site. They kept walking, unhurried and without a care. Their eyes, shielded behind tinted glasses contrasted to every other physical attribute, they were sharp and alert. They missed nothing.
"What took you so long?" asked Jess as she ran and embraced Tyler as he walked through the door. He no longer wore the hippie garb, the guitar too was gone. Instead Tyler now wore a suit and carried a businessman's brief case. The case had fit neatly inside the shaped body of the guitar. The guitar now rested is a large waste disposal bin. "Arthur's been back more than forty minutes."
"I was searching for our next accommodation."
"What's wrong with staying here?" asked Kenni.
"We have to keep moving, a stationery target is too easily found. Especially as Parnell now knows we're in the vicinity. You did make the call, didn't you, Arthur?" His confirmation came by way of a nod.
"What call?" demanded Kenni.
"Just a little message to our friend, Walter," answered Arthur.
"Whose idea was that?" the police officer persisted.
"Mine." Tyler claimed credit.
"Why, for Christ's sake?"
"To unsettle his nerves," Tyler said. He understood Kenni's frustration. She however had no idea of the gravity of their predicament. How did one explain the inexplicable? Two words, National Security, provided the so-called protectors with unprecedented powers. And Parnell, as the self-appointed leader of the 'protectors,' answered to no one.
"Kenni, we're not dealing with your average criminal here. We're up against a man who is in reality more powerful than the President. He has, by way of his position as National Security chief, been guaranteed immunity against the law. He can initiate actions that contravene our Justice system. One only has to look at the alleged abuses of Guantanamo Bay detainees to appreciate the extent of that power.
"People like Parnell have only one fear and that is the loss of that power. So they'll do whatever is necessary to ensure their survival."
"Supposing I accept all of this," said Kenni. "Can you tell me then, how does all of this tie in with Tyler's being set-up on the farm, the deaths of Marvin Trent, Alex Bryant, his daughter, General Bill Thomas, Martin Paslow, Commander Rodwell and his wife and let's not forget Fraser's little boy. Have I left anyone out?" she asked.
"The two women I was supposed to have murdered in Dalton, Rachel Costello, the young reporter and her fellow helicopter passengers," replied Tyler.
"It's quite a list. Are you suggesting they're all linked," asked Kenni? Prior to receiving any response, she continued. "Tell me about the reporter, you've not mentioned her before. And the helicopter crash, where and how did that take place?"
"I'm not a great believer in co-incidence, Kenni, so to answer your question I'd have to say yes. In fact I'd bet my life there is some connection and maybe it's time I stopped running and started presenting all the facts as I know them." Tyler had their undivided attention.
"But first, back to Rachel Costello. I don't know a whole lot about her other than she was a television journalist who followed up on a lead I provided. I never met her and only ever spoke to her a couple of times. How did I know of her? That's a fair question? During my first or second day on the run. It was after the deaths of the women in Dalton. I was sitting in a fast food store eating when I happened to glance up at a news broadcast on a TV monitor. Rachel was delivering a report on the killing."
"Is there a short version to this story?" asked Arthur, his face bathed in a smile.
"No, Arthur, but there is a name you just might recognise. I must confess I'd forgotten all about his involvement until Kenni asked about Rachel. We need to talk to him. He just might provide the breakthrough we need."
"Who is it?" Patience was a virtue Arthur never practiced.
"Maybe I'll let Jess tell the story. You up for it, Jess?"
"Sure thing." Her recall of detail matched Tyler's. She omitted nothing and saved the mystery man's identity until last. "His name is Cameron McIntosh."
"Is that Senator McIntosh?" The question came from Kenni.
"One and the same," Jess answered.
"Is there any way of establishing a link between him and Parnell?" asked Kenni.
"Probably not," Tyler took over. "People like McIntosh tend to steer clear of any direct involvement that might incriminate themselves instead they use go-betweens to do the dirty work. Go-betweens like Marvin Trent and Pattison Walford who believed they were simply obeying orders. Guess you could say the same about Arthur and me. Until now, I know I never questioned an order from above. Who's to say one of my hits wasn't aimed at silencing a potential witness to someone else's betrayal." Tyler saw no point in revealing Arthur's role in Trent's death.
"But back to the point, is there a way of establishing proof? I believe there is, and that is by talking to the Senator himself."
"There's no way he'll talk to you?" said Kenni. "Especially after what you did to him at the Chalet."
"Who said I'll be doing the talking. I thought it might be a good time for you and Arthur to meet with the Senator." Arthur's face lit up at the prospect of confronting McIntosh.
"Why would he agree to talk to us?"
"Because you're Rachel's sister and prior to getting into the helicopter Rachel downloaded a copy of her filming at the Chalet to you and now you're wondering if he'd be interested in purchasing the footage," said Tyler.
"That's blackmail," said Kenni.
"It would be if we had the evidence, but without the footage it's mere bluff," Tyler argued.
"Will he buy it?"
They rehearsed for thirty minutes prior to making the call. Kenni became Sammi Costello, Arthur her boyfriend Patrick.
As expected the phone was answered by a young female assistant. "Senator McIntosh is currently unavailable, my name is Shelly. May I be of assistance?."
"You may soon be out of a job, sister," said Kenni with an abruptness that shook the receptionist. "Unless you want to share a cell with the murdering bastard." Concerned the girl may disconnect, Kenni softened her tone. "I need to get a message to the Senator immediately. If he doesn't take my next call in ten minutes, I'm going to CNN. Tell him my name's Sammi Costello, I'm Rachel's sister and I have in my possession a copy of the footage she shot at the Chalet. Rachel downloaded it before she got in the helicopter." Kenni sensed the angst she was creating.
"Tell the Senator, we need to talk. And Shelly, remind him, he gets only one chance."
Panic swept around the McIntosh office. Where was the Senator? Should the threat be passed on to him or would it be better directed to security? Two things influenced her response, fear and knowledge. The ruthless tone of the caller produced a chilling fear while the Senator had a history on known sexual improprieties. She couldn't go to security. She made the call.
"Haven't you been told I'm not to be disturbed when I'm with my constituents?" His breathing sounded strained.
"Senator, a woman named Sammi Costello just called, said she was a sister of Rachel and she claims to have some film shot at a chalet that her sister downloaded. She wants to talk and said you'll only get one chance. She's threatening to go to CNN. She's calling back in a couple of minutes. What should I do?" The receptionist heard cussing, firstly from her boss then from a far-from-happy woman.
"When she calls, tell her I'll be back in my office in fifteen minutes."
"Should I arrange a trace on the call?"
"No." The receptionist detected fear in the Senator's raised tone.
What had he done now?
*
The Senator made one call.
"Go take the call, arrange a meeting and I'll take care of everything." The words of the man re-instilled the confidence in the Senator. The man was a genius. He provided a solution to every problem.
McIntosh walked towards the elevator. The fifteen minutes in the traffic allowed time to think. He had formulated a plan of attack. He would agree to her demands, whatever they might be. It would buy him time.
There was no one else around. He had the elevator to himself. That changed on the third floor, the doors opened and a woman entered. She stood an inch or two over five feet, attractive, dark hair, next to no make-up and of middle-eastern appearance. And she wore gloves. In different circumstances he would have made a pass. The elevator door closed and the lift resumed its ascent.
Without any warning, the woman grabbed at her chest and collapsed. McIntosh reacted instinctively. He fell to his knees beside her and searched for a pulse. With his attention focused solely on the prone woman's wrist, the Senator failed to note the elevator had stopped. Nor did he see her hand lunge at his groin.
Her speed was unbelievable. He felt the needle prick his skin but felt no more. His final thought confirmed his assessment of the man he had called. He really did have a solution for every situation. His death was that solution.
The woman regained her feet, searched through the Senator's pockets and located his phone. Time was of the essence but the killer recalled the instruction. It had been specific. Death in this case wasn't enough; the target had to be disgraced, his reputation shattered beyond redemption.
She removed his trousers and underwear, she then performed an amputation. She laid his bloodied and dismembered manhood on his stomach. Beside it she scrawled five words. 'You won't need this again.'
She left the building the same way she had entered; unseen. Surveillance cameras rarely scanned fire escapes. She texted a one word message using the phone she'd taken from the Senator's pocket. 'Done'
A reply came within seconds. 'Stay around. Four to go and they're here.'
By bob cullen
Initially investigators were unanimous in their assumptions; the Senator's reputed past had caught up with him. McIntosh had been targeted in a brutal sex revenge attack. Rumours of his behaviour had long abounded in Washington. Yet no charge had ever ensued. Was this killing confirmation of those suspicions? Had McIntosh's purchasing power, 'the dynamics of the dollar' he had called it, finally failed to appease a victim?
The bloodied scene yielded no clues, no prints, no weapon and no pictures. The elevator's security camera had been disabled. The killer had been professional. That contradicted the theory of a revenge killer. This was an execution.
Police collated a list of enemies. Every Senator had opponents and critics. Few though had as many as Cameron McIntosh. He also had powerful allies, none more so than the President. That friend now issued a directive. The Senator's name was not to be tarnished with unfounded gossip. His death could be reported, but an embargo was placed on the details.
A spokesman for the President approached the podium. The Presidential seal sat on the wall behind him. The address had been timed to coincide with the programming of the evening news on the major networks. The room was filled to capacity with journalists, audio technicians and cameramen. All fell silent. Curiosity was rampant. The reason for the unscheduled briefing remained unknown. The release issued less than thirty minutes earlier simply stated. The delivery of a Presidential announcement of National significance. Its brevity, along with an absence of detail ensured maximum attendance.
The spokesman's solemn appearance conveyed gravity. His opening words furthered that impression. There was no welcome. Urgency was obvious. He had the full attention of his audience.
"The President is deeply distressed in having to advise of the death of his close friend and colleague Senator Cameron McIntosh. The Senator's body was found less than an hour ago in an elevator in his Washington Office block. No cause of death has yet been established. His body is, at this moment in transit to the morgue where an autopsy will be performed.' Hands shot into the air as questions emerged from all sections of the room. The spokesman raised his hands hoping to placate the reporters.
"Please, please," he called. He knew his plea would have as much effect as a traffic warden trying to use hand signals to halt the frantic charge of the wild beasts at the annual Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. Nonetheless he tried. With his voice raised, he continued. "Folks, please." A degree of quiet returned. "At this time, and out of respect for his family, I seek your assistance. Your questions will be answered in due time. Again I ask you, please allow the Senator and his family, peace." He turned and retreated into the sanctuary of the White House.
He hadn't lied but he knew within a matter of days, perhaps even hours, his credibility would be shattered. Why? To save the scumbag Senator. His sense of disgust was self-directed.
Words weren't needed. As practitioners of deceit, Arthur and Tyler had delivered lies in the past. Without knowing any detail they recognised the truth, McIntosh had been murdered. Another source of information had been sealed. What was worse, the assassin was in Washington. It was time to flee. Where though, could they go? Who could provide assistance? Only one name came to mind, Meredith Paslow. How did one locate a person in hiding?
"I've got an idea," said Arthur "Can someone get me a computer."
"What are you after?" asked Kenni. She had her IPhone in her hand.
"I need to find that interview Parnell gave the other night, I'm hoping it's somewhere on you tube. Can you try to locate it?"
"What can that tell you, Arthur?"
"Not tell, Tyler, show. We need to identify those goons standing behind him."
"Why them, they are his cronies, surely we need to locate an ally of Meredith," replied Jess.
"Here it is," said Kenni. All four gathered around the tiny picture. "What are we looking for?" asked the policewoman.
"A contradiction," said Arthur. "Maybe some indication that suggests an unwillingness to be there. A silent protest if you like." They watched the four minute tape a second and third time. Nothing stood out.
"Play it once more," said Jess. "Look at the guy on the left. Am I imagining it, or does he move further to the left. Look where he is now, he's standing directly below the letter F in Meredith's wall banner." Three minutes later he stood beneath the letter I in GUILTY. He had moved seven letters to the left, away from his colleagues. Was it coincidence or a deliberate attempt to put distance between himself and his colleagues?
"We need to find him," said Arthur. "You or me, Tyler?"
"Me."
Tyler struggled with the crutches. He found a bench, rested the walking aids against the seat then placed a large cardboard sign on the footpath. It read; 'BLIND & HOMELESS: Afghanistan vet.' In the centre of the sign he placed a round biscuit tin. His clothing was tattered, the shirt was missing one sleeve. His jeans were ill-fitting and patched and his belt was a knotted rope. He had only one shoe and no socks. Dark glasses hid his face. His straggly hair hadn't seen a comb in a long time.
Most passed without a glance. Some slowed to get a better look or to read the writing and occasionally someone contributed. He grunted his thanks. Late in the day Tyler's anger surged as he watched a young guy brazenly approach the tin, reach down and grab the bulk of his day's donations.
Instinct kicked in. To maintain credibility he knew he couldn't jump up and nail the kid, at the same time he couldn't just sit back and watch him escape.
"Thief." His scream attracted the attention of passers-by. No one moved to intervene or chase, not that it mattered; the robber had vanished into the late afternoon flow of employees heading home.
Disgust settled over Tyler. Today's society had given up on assisting those in need. Not one person had come to the aid of a blind veteran. No one cared. Life today was all about self.
Realisation hit him hard. He really had stuffed up. In focusing on the thief he had jeopardised the entire purpose of his role, the search for the employee who possibly would lead them to Meredith Paslow. The two minute distraction had probably allowed Tyler's target to slip invisibly into the night. He watched as the flow exiting the building slowed to a trickle. Tyler prepared to pack up for the day. He'd try again tomorrow.
Two stragglers emerged. One headed north and the other south. Tyler's eyes fixed on the one heading south. He was crossing the road coming directly towards him. It was him. Tyler reached for his crutches. The first one slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground. He swore, just loud enough for the approaching worker to hear him.
"Can I help you?"
"Not as much as I can help you," said the cripple as he struggled to his feet.
"What do you mean?" The man was taken aback by the stranger's words. Absolute panic was apparent.
"We need to find Meredith, or at least get a message to her."
"Meredith who?" The man had stopped.
"Keep walking," said Tyler. "Don't look at me and don't talk, just listen. My name is Tyler Spellman. I'm better known to Meredith as Calin Roberts. Please pass this message on. I'll be here tomorrow. Tell her we're on the same side. If she's interested in a meeting, wrap the details inside a folded five dollar bill and drop it in my tin tomorrow. Don't say anything when you drop it, just keep on walking."
Tyler slowed and let the distance between the employee and him stretch to ten and then twenty yards. He sensed success. The man's response had indicated the accuracy of Tyler's suspicion. The man was beside himself with fear. The path to Meredith had been located. It was now a case of waiting. What sort of response would tomorrow bring?
The morning passed slowly. Fewer people contributed to the crippled Vet's tin and certainly no one with five dollars. Tyler placed the tin within a protective radius, the loss of money didn't concern him but the prospect of losing Meredith's message was a circumstance he couldn't entertain.
| Author Notes | Sorry about the delay in posting, I've neen on holidays |
By bob cullen
Previously:
In desperation Calin attempts to connect with Meredith.
***
The weather too turned nasty. The sunshine of yesterday had yielded to a drizzling rain. The Vet had no raincoat. An elderly lady offered her umbrella. He said no, but she insisted. Come night time he scrambled through the tin. There wasn't one five dollar note. Last night's visitor was an MIA today, an absentee. Or was he a deserter?
Tyler stood to leave. The rain had stopped. What should he do with the umbrella? The thought came from left field. Would she really be that clever? Tyler picked up the brolly and examined it. He saw a note taped to part of the frame. His admiration for Meredith Paslow rose.
'Last night you spoke with my trusted colleague, Daniel Andrews and he relayed your message to me.
'I will find you and much sooner than you expect.'
Was it an empty promise or did she really have a plan in mind? Tyler read the message a second time. Was she somewhere observing his every action? Or had she planted a tracking device somewhere? Where, and what could it be? It could be as small as a coin, or as large as the umbrella. Could it be a trap? One that just might provide Meredith with a road to salvation?
He found it in a small hole drilled into the umbrella's handle. A plastic hand grip covered the device's hiding place. He left it in place. He could think of no option. The meeting with Meredith Paslow had to proceed. She represented their one, and probably only chance. But it would be a meeting on his terms.
He saw what he needed. A woman wheeling a child in a pram. Clumsiness was a trait no operative could afford. Yet in this instance it was employed. It could be used to his advantage. A blind man was judged differently.
He judged the collision with absolute precision. His left crutch landed inch perfect on the front foot of the young woman pushing the stroller. She tripped and fell. He collapsed beside her. Tyler knew he had only seconds. It was more than enough. He secured the umbrella onto the pram's undercarriage.
Tyler fumbled on the ground for his crutches. He had mastered the art of helplessness. The woman moved to assist him. She tried to silence his pleas for forgiveness as she helped him back to his feet.
"Stop apologising," she said. "Accidents happen."
"But they shouldn't," Tyler countered. "It was careless on my part. I wasn't listening, my ears are my eyes."
"Are you always this hard on yourself?"
"Only when my stupidity exceeds my awareness," he replied, assured in the knowledge he had rid himself of the tracker. Now he'd become the pursuer rather than the pursued. "And thank you for being so understanding. I think I'll find myself someplace to sit down for a while."
She helped him find a park bench. Surrounded by trees, it was ideal. "Can I get you a drink or something," she asked.
"No, already you've been too kind," Tyler said, faking guilt. He didn't like using innocent bystanders, but there was no alternative. He had to find Meredith.
He watched her walk away. Several times she turned around to check on his welfare. Tyler waited until she was out of sight. He then rose from the seat, threw the crutches and the one shoe he wore into the trees behind him and set off in pursuit of the pram pushing woman. He crossed the street and maintained a discreet distance between himself and the woman.
Experience had provided many lessons, one of them being 'beware of the unusual.' His instincts sparked onto full alert on seeing the other woman. There was urgency in her stride. She caught up with the woman and the pram.
Recognition came instantly. She had been the provider of the umbrella. It was Meredith Paslow. Fear swept through Tyler. Was she enemy or friend? He wished Arthur was here as back-up.
Tyler observed the interaction between the two women. As the older woman spoke she flashed some form of identification. The two women then turned. He knew where they were heading, back to the park bench.
Darkness had fallen, it provided more protection. Tyler watched as Meredith located the crutches. The younger woman looked on in disbelief.
"Are you looking for someone, Meredith?" asked Tyler. Both women spun around on hearing the voice. Shock registered on the face of the younger woman.
"Where are the others?" Meredith asked.
"Don't you know, I've lost my memory," said Tyler. "Though perhaps I should say, your people wiped it clean for me. Then they tried to kill me. Guess they did a better job on your father." He made no effort to hide his hostility.
"Let's get this young lady home first. We can talk then."
"What makes you think I want to talk?"
"You came looking for me, Tyler."
"I came to return your umbrella."
"The next step is up to you, Calin. We can't keep this baby out in the evening air." She took control of the stroller and headed back towards where she first encountered the woman and the pram. "I'm not asking for you trust. I know I have failed you. I swear to you I didn't know. But that only makes my failure greater.
"Believe me Calin, I understand your anger. But I assure you, I had no part in your being betrayed." She was now power walking. The young girl struggled to maintain the pace. Tyler followed several paces behind.
"I'll make a deal with you, Director." She paused to listen. There was no time for friendship or familiarity. Respect was however a professional courtesy. "Let's agree to neither make promises we can't keep nor offer excuses that lack in both credibility and sincerity. I accept you have a job to do and you must accept I will not rest until I have been vindicated and cleared of all allegations."
"What did my father tell you?"
"He suggested there was a traitor within your organisation."
"Why didn't he come to me?"
"You could have been the betrayer?"
"Did he say that?"
"His last words to me were, 'Don't trust anyone.'" For the first time ever, Tyler saw fragility in the woman he thought indestructible. She was cracking. He knew he had to bolster her resolve. There was no time for weakness. The lie came easily, they always did. "You father didn't doubt you Meredith. He was trying to protect you. You know what they say; 'a daughter remains Daddy's little girl forever.' Recovery had been affected.
She commenced walking again, not with the fluency of before, but the pram was moving forward. "Do you have a phone?" He directed the question to the young woman.
"Yes."
"May I have it?"
"Who are you calling?" asked Meredith.
"Arthur."
"Why?" Tyler sensed Meredith's uncertainty.
"Trust me, Director. I know what I'm doing."
"Give me the truth then," she snapped.
"Stop," said Tyler. His voice had taken on a new seriousness. The two women halted. "It's time to face facts, Director. It's no longer just you and me. The young lady here too is now in danger. She can't go back to her own home. She needs protection and that's where Arthur comes in." Tyler saw the rise of fear on the young woman's face. There was no time to explain.
"How long will it take for him to get here?"
"A couple of minutes," replied Tyler.
"You had back-up," said Meredith. "Didn't you trust me?"
"Trust, Director, has to be earned. It requires honesty and that's something I've not seen these past couple of months," said Tyler. "My employer betrayed me and then tried to have me killed. You, Director, agreed to a meeting then you tried to trap me by using a concealed tracking device. To me, ma'am, that doesn't fit within my definition of trust."
"I had no choice, Calin," replied Meredith. "I was desperate, fighting to stay alive. And now, after Walter's telecast, I'm depicted as a cold-blooded and dangerous killer. I can't do this on my own. I need your expertise."
"Before you make any decision, Director, there are some things you should know," Tyler replied. "And some rules you must agree to abide by. One, what I say, goes. Two, the only law that applies is the law of survival. Three, the less you know, the safer you'll be. And lastly, I offer no guarantees. Failure can never be ruled out. And, in the event of that happening, Director, you are on your own. Do I make myself clear?"
"I'm in your hands, Calin."
"You may live to regret those words, Director."
"If I live, Walter Parnell will be the one filled with regret."
By bob cullen
"Based on what's happened these past few days, I doubt the Acting Director will survive the weekend. Whoever is behind this operation is effectively conducting a risk reduction clear-out. Senator McIntosh's death is proof of that. Parnell will be next."
"What makes you think that?"
"Precedent, Director," Tyler answered. "Parnell is the General all over again. He is ruthless, ambitious and arrogant. He believes his position as Acting Director places him above the law and that makes him dangerous to both his allies and his enemies. As such he becomes a threat and we know how these people deal with threats."
"What the hell is going on?" Sobbing now accompanied the pram pusher's fear.
"Time to get out of here," Tyler said on seeing Arthur running towards them. He took the hand of the girl. He placed his hand on her mouth on sensing she was about to scream. Meredith pushed the pram.
"Do you know who I am?" Meredith asked the girl. She shook her head. "My name is Meredith Paslow, I am the Director of one of this country's largest Security organisations."
"I know about you?" the girl said. "You killed your father."
"My father was murdered, yes, but not by me." Meredith's response was agitated and wouldn't have convinced anyone. Tyler took over.
"She's not lying," he commenced. "And what's worse, her father's death is but the tip of the iceberg. What's your name?"
"Susan."
"Susan," said Tyler. "The story I'm about to tell you will sound unbelievable, more in line with a Jason Bourne movie than reality. But I swear to you, Susan, it is absolute truth." He paused to allow her to digest what he'd said.
"We all know the Bourne's and James Bond are fictional characters. The fact remains every major world power employs spies to ensure their own National Security. It is an unfortunate necessity in today's over-militarised world. You have to know what your enemy is up to. It's not a pretty scenario. But it's the one system that ensures balance and peace. Meredith is the Director of the Government Agency that employs both Arthur and I. We are tasked with a wide variety of duties, but primarily we operate off-shore. Our job is all about providing protection for this country. We are not the bad guys but that's enough on our general history." Tyler saw uncertainty on the face of Susan. He realised he had to provide more.
"While I can't go into specific details, I think you deserve an explanation as to what has transpired to date. I must warn you however, the information I'm about to provide is classified and can't be discussed. Now or ever with anyone. Is that understood?" The uncertainty had yielded to fear.
"Meredith's father," Tyler continued. He had achieved the reaction he wanted. The young woman was terrified. She had to understand the gravity of the situation. "Martin Paslow was a Senator who came upon information that implicated a number of very important people in a conspiracy that could well, and I'm not exaggerating when I say this, bring this country down. He then confided in me and that's when all hell broke loose."
"Do I need to know all of this?" Arthur still had a firm hold over her. There was no way she could break free.
"You don't need to, but it will give you a better understanding of who and what we're up against." Tyler stopped and faced the young woman. His voice grew in intensity. "Susan, these people are killers, I should be dead."
"What happened?" It was little more than a whisper.
"I was arrested and Martin Paslow was drugged with some unknown and unidentified chemical. To all intents and purposes he never regained consciousness. I was then subjected to brainwashing and left with total amnesia, my memory can only recall the past couple of weeks."
"Why are you telling me all of this?"
"For two reasons," Tyler said. "First to advise you of the danger you are now in, and secondly, to explain to you why you must remain in hiding."
"No one's seen us together."
"Don't fool yourself, Susan, in this day of technology and surveillance cameras secrecy no longer exists. I'm sorry I deceived you and that is why I now accept responsibility for your welfare. I, or rather we, will protect you until all of this is over."
"Do you really expect me to believe all of this?"
"That's your call, Susan. But let me put it to you bluntly. You're coming with us, willingly or unwillingly." Arthur had joined the conversation.
"Where are you taking me?"
"To a place where you'll be safe," said Arthur.
"Can I call my mum and let her know I'm all right?"
"When we get there," said Arthur. Tyler recognised the lie. There would be no phone call.
They rode in silence. That suited Tyler; he was in no mood for discussion. He needed to think. A plan had to be created. Prior to that plan though, he had to discover the enemy. Who he was? Where he was? And how to get to him? The where was fairly obvious. It had to be someone in the Pentagon. Or perhaps the White House; that prospect terrified him.
What was Arthur thinking? Already Tyler had ruled out the involvement of Police Officer Lyons, Director Paslow and Jess. The circumstances of the case had far exceeded their areas of expertise. In all probability, the girls too were now targeted. It truly had become a Calin situation. A dirty war where the odds had become impossible and rules no longer applied. Reality offered two outcomes, surrender or death. And to Calin Roberts 'surrender ain't never no option soldier'.
Tyler feared failure more than death. He saw death as release. A release from the dual pressures of expectation and duty. Failure though was different and far worse; you had to live with the consequences of failure. And shoulder the blame for the impact your error imposed on others. For that reason Tyler made one promise. Death alone would stop him.
There was however no time to dwell on the negatives, positivity was their one hope. Every delay allowed the pursuers to get that one step closer. Tyler hoped Arthur had ideas. He had none. Sure they could go after Parnell. But what purpose would that achieve, the man was a pawn and as in the game of chess pawns had little value. There had to be another line of attack.
"Tyler, I've been thinking." Arthur's words cut through Tyler's thoughts. It provided the escape from doubt. "Maybe we're going about this the wrong way."
"I'm listening."
"Who is the one person who can identify the next link in the chain of command? Think about it, it's not Parnell. I'd bet money there's already a bullet with his name on it. Or more likely, it will be a lady offering a night's pleasure. And that lady is our link."
"Please don't tell me you're suggesting we take on a bodyguard role for the bastard," said Tyler. Arthur was reiterating the theory he'd made in the park. Parnell's life was in extreme peril.
"You can't be serious," said Meredith. She steered the Landcruiser on to the first off ramp. Quite obviously she still saw herself as Director and as such the Team leader. "She is a ruthless killer. She could well take you both down."
"Meredith," Tyler interrupted. It was time to set her straight. His voice had taken on a harsh inflexibility. Calin Roberts was in control. "I have no intention of usurping your leadership, nor do I intend to obey your direction. This is a confrontation we can't avoid. And one we have to win. As good as she is, she won't be expecting our involvement and that gives us the element of surprise." Tyler expected an argument. The driver held silent.
"To sit back and do nothing is tantamount to surrender, and Calin Roberts doesn't quit. So Director, make the decision. Your way, or my way?" He opened the door ready to jump out.
"With you, brother," said Arthur as a second door opened.
"I guess I'm outvoted," said Meredith.
"Don't we get a say in this, it's our lives too," said Jess.
"Arthur," said Tyler. "Get back in the car; the girl's need you more than I do. I guess I'm about to become the rogue agent I was accused of being at the farmstead.
"Jess, I'm sorry." He started running back towards the highway.
Meredith was the first to respond. "Go after him, Arthur. And tell him, in my eyes he will never be a rogue." The most recent Calin planted a kiss on the cheeks of Kenni and then commenced his chase.
By bob cullen
"What are you doing, Meredith?" asked Jess as the Director parked a mile or so from where Arthur and Tyler had been dropped off.
"Establishing a back-up point."
"But we don't know where they are."
"Weren't you listening," said Meredith. "Arthur told us where they were going."
"Why didn't you stop them?" Jess's voice was charged with emotion. "They could be walking into a trap."
"When Tyler's in that mood my dear, the good Lord Himself couldn't stop him.
"Jess," Meredith continued in the comforting tone of a mother consoling an injured child. "Age, my dear, offers only one advantage, experience. It teaches you how to deal with troublesome and difficult employees. Men like Calin, for example. If you're smart, you learn how to manipulate them without them knowing and you learn when to back down. And that is precisely what I've done here. I've allowed Calin to think he's in command.
"But you must never overplay your hand."
"They don't want your help, Meredith," argued Kenni, her tone suggested both anger and passion. "They made that very clear. Aren't you afraid of pissing them off? You heard what Tyler said."
"I heard, and I am giving them free rein. But I'm also providing back-up in the event of something going wrong," Meredith answered.
"How do you know where they'll be?" asked Jess.
"Think back to what Arthur said. It's so damn logical." Meredith searched her companion's faces for understanding and found none. "He was spot on when he suggested we are going about this the wrong way. Instead of trying to find out who is behind all of this, we should be trying to find the killer. That will be a whole lot easier."
"How do you figure that?" asked Kenni.
"We know the next target."
"Do tell us, Nostradamus," said Kenni.
Meredith provided the answer. "Walter Parnell, and that, I believe is where we'll find Arthur and Tyler."
"What if the killer overpowers them?" asked Jess.
"Then it's game over."
Meredith's personal assistant had served her purpose. She had spied on Meredith. Done everything he'd asked in his bed and stood behind him at the press conference. Without any inkling of guilt he signed the document terminating her employment. She would finish today. He didn't even call her.
A conscience was a liability he never experienced. Today was a new beginning. He was freed of Delta. Instilled in the position that he rightly deserved and all-powerful beyond his dreams. Even the President responded to him. Wealth would follow. An account had been established in the Caymans. Already the bonuses were flowing. Tonight he would sample the charms of one of the city's finest escorts, courtesy of his friend in the Pentagon. And all in the comfort of his own home.
Seated in a tiny playground, Arthur and Tyler studied the neighbourhood. Darkness had set in. The streets were brightly lit. Expensive looking cars lined the kerb and every window was protected either by shutters or reinforced metal bars. For most it was unaffordable without being opulent. For a man on Parnell's salary it was way beyond his means.
Delta provided the first surprise. She approached the door with a key and entered. The two men smiled. They wouldn't have to break in. Two minutes later she rushed out, distress obvious. Tyler went after her.
"What's wrong, Delta?"
"How do you know my name?" The tone, more than the words, was spat in sheer anger.
"You work for Meredith."
"I've betrayed her. The bastard used me." She was now sobbing.
"I'm offering the chance to atone," said Tyler.
"Who are you?"
"We're both known as Calin Roberts." Tyler saw her reaction. He also saw another woman emerge from the house. She was running. "Go after her," he said to Arthur. "I'm going into the house."
"Come with me," he called to Delta. "And have your phone ready. I think we'll need 911."
Parnell was breathing, just. Tyler tried to stem the bleeding. It was, he knew futile. The artery was in full flow. The man had only seconds.
"Give me a name," pleaded Tyler. A gurgling sound emerged from the throat. Death followed. Delta's scream echoed around the room. A minute later, Arthur entered.
"I lost her." In the distance, Tyler heard the all too familiar torment of sirens.
"We've got to get out of here," said Tyler. "When the police arrive, tell them the truth."
As they ran from the house, a vehicle they recognised pulled up beside them. "Get in," ordered Meredith. Their shock intensified when they saw a prone and unconscious figure on the floor. Even without looking at her, Tyler knew her identity.
"Is she dead?"
"No, but I doubt she'll be running anytime soon. She'll need new knees. Kenni pumped a bullet into each one," said Meredith not aware of the background. "She then added a final touch. She crashed the butt of her pistol into the prisoner's skull. She then tied her up none too gently I might add."
"How did you determine we'd be here?" asked Arthur.
"It was a combination of two things you said," Meredith explained. "First up you suggested Parnell would be the next victim and then you mentioned the need to catch the killer. So we just had to keep our eye on the target."
"Have you ever thought of a career in the field, Meredith?" asked Tyler.
"And have to put up with the insolence of the likes of you? No, I'm quite happy just cleaning up after your mess."
"I concede, I was wrong and I owe you all an apology," said Tyler.
"Did that hurt?" asked Jess.
"What hurts is the knowledge that I allowed my ego and chauvinistic attitude affect my logic and almost cost us the chance of capturing our friend here.
"Where are Susan and the baby?"
"Back with her parents," said Meredith.
"Is that wise?"
"Safer there than here. I wouldn't want my daughter hanging out with the likes of you two."
"You're in a jovial mood, Director."
"You've no idea how good it is to hear that title again. Thank you Arthur." They drove on in silence. The city was quickly disappearing into the distance. Suburbia was surrendering to acreage and wooded areas. And darkness, the ally of those on the run, had commenced its descent.
"How hard did you hit her," asked Arthur figuring this would be an ideal location for questioning? "Meredith, take the next off-road track you see. I think it's time we talked to our friend here."
Tyler saw it first, the assassin was coming around. She sat up and had a smile on her face. Tyler had seen the look before, and he remembered where, Afghanistan. A Taliban soldier on a suicide run. Panic hit him. "Get out of the car," he yelled. "She's got a bomb." Her eyes glowed in her moment of triumph. Tyler searched for the detonator. He saw it too late, a dress ring on her little finger. While her two wrists were tightly tied, there was enough movement available to allow the little finger on her left hand to apply pressure to the jewelled stone on the ring on the other hand. There was no explosion, was there perhaps a time delay? To allow a bomber to flee. Reality hit, suicide bombers don't run. Had the wiring been faulty?
Meredith jumped from the driver's seat. Tyler was the last out. He had searched the woman's pockets more in hope than conviction. Some form of identification was needed. He found a phone, a tiny purse and an exquisite brooch. Then he saw the knife. The one that had killed Parnell. Perhaps it contained fingerprints. Memory negated that thought, she'd been wearing gloves. A new idea formed, he grabbed the knife and slashed. Her scream filled the night. Tyler scooped up the severed fingers and ran.
In seven seconds Usain Bolt can cover around eighty yards, Tyler managed half that, it was nowhere near enough. The explosion lifted both Tyler and the motor vehicle off the ground. A second scream erupted, Jess was on her feet. Arthur grabbed her by the arms. She broke free.
Jess raced to where Tyler lay. Face down he hadn't moved. She searched for a pulse, found it and turned him over. He was alive, and groaning.
"Jess, we've got to get out of here," said Arthur standing above her.
"You go, I'll stay with Tyler."
"No Jess, we came as one and we'll leave the same way," he said on reaching down and lifting his barely conscious colleague onto his shoulders. Jess, watched in horror, medical training taught the need to stabilize the victim for fear of worsening any internal injury prior to any attempt to move him. In Arthur's world urgency ruled.
There was no time to argue, Arthur was already on the move. Jess checked the ground to see if anything had been dropped, she saw two still-bleeding and gloved fingers, and a phone. Instinct saw her pick them up.
| Author Notes | Hope this works, this is my first attempt at posting on the new format |
By bob cullen
Fifty seconds had passed since the explosion; they had to escape prior to the arrival of witnesses. But how, their transport was a tangled and burning shell. There was no way out, they were cornered.
Jess opened her hand to reveal the evidence she collected from beneath where Tyler had lain. Meredith saw the phone. She knew it didn't belong to Tyler so she guessed it was the killer's. She banked everything on that assumption. She texted four words, 'Trapped, need a chopper.' She forwarded the message firstly to Daniel's cell phone and secondly to the most recent sent call. She believed the phone had GPS fitted. At Arthur's insistence, they placed the phone back into the burned out vehicle and took up a hiding place a quarter mile away.
They heard the aircraft before they saw it. It displayed neither night time lighting nor identification. It had to be military. It was coming in low and fast. Arthur's belief had been vindicated. This wasn't a rescue mission; destruction of evidence and surviving witnesses was its sole purpose. The precision and intensity of the attack defied belief. Machine guns ripped the vehicle apart in a matter of seconds. The chopper, identified by Arthur as a Black Hawk, vanished as quickly as it arrived. Mission accomplished. Someone in Washington would sleep easy tonight. The assassin and her targets were now accounted for.
Meredith's fear mounted. Who had the authority to authorise such an attack? Had the order originated from Langley or a military base? Who could be trusted?
Meredith heard her phone ring. The caller ID listed an unknown number. Should she answer? Was it an enquiry of survival? Or was it Daniel? She ignored it. Hoping if it was Daniel, he'd call back.
"Any suggestions on how we get out of here?" asked Arthur. "I've no doubt they'll come looking for bodies first light tomorrow."
"What about trying to hitch a ride with a trucker," said Kenni? No one noticed Tyler open his eyes.
"That might work for you girls," said Arthur. "But uglies like me and Tyler might be stuck here for a week." Jess cradled Tyler's head on her knees. She bent down to kiss him.
"Would you like us to leave?" said Kenni.
"What happened?" He sniffed the air. "Did they really hit us with a gunship? I'd recognise that smell anywhere." Arthur provided the details. "I'm starting to get the impression they want us dead.
"I'm getting too old for this," Tyler continued as he struggled to get to his feet. "Go girls. Get this broken down old man, and my tennis playing friend a ride."
"Don't forget your mother." Laughter greeted Meredith's comment.
"North, away from the capital or south back towards Washington," asked Kenni.
"Your call, Tyler," said Arthur.
"I could do with a day or two to recover, so I'd suggest north."
"North it is."
The first two trucks honked their horns but didn't slow. The third driver stopped. "Where to ladies?"
"Wherever you're heading, cowboy," said Jess. In an instant she had perfected the accent. She was Dolly Parton without the enhancements.
"I'll take you to heaven if you leave your ugly sister behind."
"No one talks to my lady like that, arsehole," said Arthur as he flung open the driver's door and dragged the driver from his seat.
"What's going on?" Fear had replaced lust on the trucker's mind. Arthur had him pinned to the ground.
"I'm going to tie you up, but do as you're told and you'll survive the ride." The driver appeared far from convinced. "Cause trouble and we'll deal with you the way we deal with all troublemakers."
Arthur slid behind the wheel. Already they had ascertained the rig was heading for Chicago. An hour into the journey, Tyler was sleeping, the driver was also secured in the sleeper while the three girls squeezed onto the passenger's seat beside Arthur.
"What's your name, brother," asked Arthur. "We're in for a long night, so we may as well talk. I might even tell you what this is all about."
"Reagan." The reply was short and sharp.
"After the President," said Jess.
"Yeah."
"Guess that makes you around thirty," said Arthur.
"My name's Arthur Ashe..."
"I know who you are." Arthur detected the man's anger. He wondered what caused it. "I once played you in an inter-college challenge. You flogged me 6 -- 0, 6 -- 0, didn't even raise a sweat." Was it envy? "And then when it got tough against the big boys, you spat the dummy and quit. I busted my arse to get a scholarship and then lost it because I wasn't good enough." Arthur now understood.
"Let me assure you Reagan, I might have won that match but you won in the end. I was nothing more than a wind-up puppet programmed and mastered by two very demanding parents. I was winning the matches they couldn't win. Winning the money they believed they deserved. Don't get me wrong, they were good parents but they were living their life through me. And that's the reason I quit. I needed my own life. I'm not a quitter Reagan, never have been and never will be.
"And when this is all over, I'll find you and finish my life history."
Meredith took over. "Reagan, there are two sides in every story. In the past couple of days the media has told you one side. I've been identified as the killer of my father. That's not true. And Tyler back there has been painted as a cold-blooded killer. That's another lie.
"Guess I should now introduce the two hitchhikers, Jess and Kenni. Kenni, by the way is also on the run. According to the media reports, she's a rogue police officer.
"Would you like to hear the story from beginning? I promise you it's true in every detail."
"I've got nothing else to do, and I've always enjoyed a good story." For the next hour, Meredith told the story from beginning to end. The trucker continually shook his head in disbelief.
"Don't you have proof?" asked Reagan. "There must be witnesses somewhere."
"Every witness who had any knowledge of us is now dead," said Arthur. "So when we get out of your rig, I would strongly suggest you lose all memory of ever meeting us."
"I can't believe this kind of shit goes on in our country."
"Wherever there's power, there's corruption, Reagan. I know, I've spent my entire life trying to expose it and weed it out," said Meredith. "And now, I'm, in fact we're all fighting the liars to clear our names. And time is running out."
"What's your next step?"
"Before or after we kill you?" Tyler was sitting up and smiling.
"Ignore him," said Arthur. "With his memory shot, he now thinks he used to be a comedian. The only thing he kills now is jokes."
"Arthur," said Meredith. She had just seen a sign indicating a town named Warfordsburg some minutes earlier. They had crossed the state line into Pennsylvania. "I think it's time for us to bid Reagan goodbye." She studied the reaction of the restrained driver in the sleeper. Fear had returned. "Take the next off ramp and find us someplace where we can talk."
"I won't say nothing, I promise," said Reagan.
"Promises mean nothing, Reagan. Survival in our line of work depends on maintaining secrecy and history proves there is only one way to ensure absolute secrecy and that is to silence anyone who knows the truth." Reagan's fear had turned to panic. Meredith also saw the impact her words were having on Kenni. The policewoman was shaking her head, her policing ethic opposed to what she feared Meredith was about to suggest.
"But in your case, Reagan, I know our secret is safe because the minute you open your mouth, you too become a target. And believe me, Reagan, they will hunt you down." Meredith watched relief flow onto two faces, Reagan and Kenni. The Director had learned a valuable lesson, the ethical difference between citizen protection and national security. Any thought she had of seconding Kenni vanished. The policewoman had a conscience.
Arthur drove into a fast food parking lot. Tyler untied Reagan then wished him good luck. Prior to driving off, Reagan had one final question of Arthur. "When this is all over, can we have a rematch?"
"Sure thing." Reagan and his rig disappeared into the night.
By bob cullen
The home was palatial and it regularly housed parties for the influential. The home hosted three distinct variations of the party theme. The first type of party, the power party catered to the nation's decision makers; the politicians and the business leaders. Deals worth billions were negotiated here. The host always received a commission. He referred to these parties as payday.
The playboy party, as the name suggested entertained the next level of policy makers, the bureaucrats and senatorial committee members who implemented and directed the spending of the federal budget. It was a men's only night. On these nights the ratio of women to men was three to one. The male age averaged 46 while the women averaged 19. A dozen underage girls attended, the host had to satisfy all tastes. For the same reason a number of young men attended. In this age of enlightened sexuality, the host would never discriminate. He never attended these occasions, he did however observe. His cameras and recording devices captured every detail. He called it leverage.
The charity ball was, in the eyes of many, Washington's most sought after invitation of the social year. The President and the First Lady attended as did Republican and Democratic power brokers along with the CEO's of the country's major corporations. Bankers were seated next to media moguls, foreign diplomats alongside military leaders while notable celebrities mixed with prominent sporting figures. The host, Kendall McKenzie and his wife shared a table with the President. Neither journalists nor cameras were allowed. Oversized egos however produced hundreds of I-phoned selfies many of which later appeared in the print media. That caused no bother. It only intensified the competition for an invitation to next year's event. And the concealed table bugs revealed many secrets. This was the host's night of intelligence gathering.
Only two people attended all three events, his late friend Senator Cameron McIntosh and the man he was about to meet. A man he no longer trusted. The host was a sceptic who didn't believe in co-incidence. The spate of sudden and unexplained deaths concerned him. He believed there had to be a link. Several of the victims, including the Senator, had been guests at one or more of his parties. He studied the list again searching for the connection. His attention focused on the soldiers. Three, Thomas, Trent and Rodwell had attended last year's ball, as had Parnell. Was that the connection? The host called up the seating arrangements for that night. Parnell had been seated next to Thomas. Surely he'd not planned it that way. Then he saw the note, the change in seating had been requested by Parnell. He turned his thoughts to Parnell.
McKenzie had never warmed to Assistant Director Parnell; yet McIntosh had insisted on the Assistant Director's inclusion so he yielded to his friend's request. Parnell was a sleaze of the worst kind but a man who had been useful. And so easy to bribe, women, particularly young women had been his weakness. He now owned Parnell. One question troubled the host. Were McIntosh and Parnell somehow linked? Then he remembered; McIntosh chaired the committee that funded the activities of Homeland Security, the Agency Walter Parnell served as Assistant Director. Did Thomas fall under the direct authority of Parnell? Did Thomas's command oversee the roles of Trent and Rodwell? Would his soon-to-arrive guest be able to answer these queries?
Or was the purpose of the visit much more basic, the sealing of the final leak, him. That prospect, as real as it was, didn't concern McKenzie. He was prepared. Since the death of Cameron he had bolstered his security and he'd taken precautions. If he fell he'd trigger an avalanche of casualties.
"My orders were specific," said the man who answered the door. Additional security officers stood by to enforce their employer's command. "No one, not even the President, gets by us without being cleared. Now spread your arms and legs while we search."
"Do you know who I am?"
"I believe your title is Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Staff."
"I answer only to the President. Now let me through to see Kendall, now."
"There are two ways to do this, Chairman Slater." The tone now contained menace. "With civility or with force, then again you may choose to leave. The choice is yours, but we have our orders." He turned to leave. The voice of Kendall MacKenzie emerged through an audio system.
"Brendan, in the light of so many recent deaths of guests from last year's festivities, and not knowing if I may be the next name on the killer's list, I've been forced to adopt a number of security measures. This unfortunately is one of them. As my friend just mentioned, you are free to leave, that is your choice. Should you take that path however, I can no longer guarantee your safety." The threat was blatant, and it hadn't yet finished. "But remember I too have a choice and a comprehensive library of facts and videos that may be of interest to many in the news media. Incidentally, were any misfortune to befall me suddenly, these details will be forwarded to every media outlet in the country. I call it insurance. This message too is being recorded, so I would suggest you think carefully before you speak."
"Fuck you. I don't succumb to blackmail."
"Call it what you will, Brenden. Personally I see it as protection. Pity you don't practice my diligence. Your behaviour leaves you open to manipulation. There are pictures of you partying, and I use that word in the broadest sense, with young girls around the age of fourteen. And these pictures are, I'm told, most explicit. You should be more discreet. But let's put that aside."
"You're lying."
"There's a computer screen in front of you, Brendan." One of the security guards brought the screen to life. "Perhaps you'd like to see." A stilled image appeared on screen. It was enough. The visitor recognised himself on screen. He couldn't remember the girl.
"Should I roll the film?"
"What do you want?" Resistance was gone. His fear increased as he saw McKenzie enter the room with a gun in his hand.
"Reassurance, my friend," said McKenzie. "I guess you could say I'm getting nervous at seeing so many of my friends dying. And I keep asking myself, am I next on the list? Then I wonder if maybe I should perhaps take the initiative and shoot first.
"Search him." The security guards acted as one. They stripped the visitor naked. A recording device was taped to his stomach. "Don't you trust me?"
"It's just a back-up, my memory's not all that reliable these days," said the visitor as the monitoring equipment was ripped from his body. One of the security guards held up a tiny transmitting device.
"Lying's only compounding your problems, Brendan," interrupted McKenzie. "And I must confess I'm rapidly losing my patience. You were transmitting, not that it matters. You see, Brendan, when I had this house built I took the precaution of installing communication jamming equipment. The only sound your transmitter will receive from the moment you walked through my front door is a high pitched buzz. I guess that negates your treachery.
"For the moment however, I'm prepared to put all of that aside. But be warned I'll not be so forgiving next time. Let's get on to the real reason I invited you over. I need one question answered."
"Before we go any further, I also have one question." McKenzie noted the pause; Slater was still dressing himself. "Can I trust you?"
"Can you trust anyone in this city? The answer is no. Washington has a potential Judas on every corner, most prepared to sell their soul for a dollar. We are however digressing. I didn't invite you here today to intimidate or threaten you but rather to discuss a matter that causes me great concern."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"A series of unsolved murders," said McKenzie.
"What makes you believe I'd know anything about these crimes?"
"Four of the victims were commissioned officers in the military."
"If you're referring to Bill Thomas, Marvin Trent, Commander Rodwell and Lieutenant Walford I can inform you the killers in each case have been identified. Trent and Walford were killed by a rogue officer named Calin Roberts. Rodwell committed suicide and Bill was killed by a yet-to-be identified prostitute he'd hooked up with." Slater spoke with the certainty of one fully acquainted with all facts.
"I've heard the same story, but I'd like you to tell me the truth," said McKenzie. "Because I know all four can be linked, Brenden, and the connection expands to include Walter Parnell and my friend Cameron McIntosh." The host was bluffing, but it was, he felt certain, a worthwhile and calculated gamble.
"What has all this to do with me?" asked Slater. The forcefulness of his previous answer had faded.
"It doesn't take a whole lot of imagination to suggest a possible chain of command, Walford to Trent to Rodwell to Thomas to Parnell to yourself and finally to the Senator. Have I left anyone out?
"Didn't Senator Martin Paslow also die recently I'm surprised you've not mentioned him. Or his daughter; isn't she currently on the run?"
"That's my next question, Brenden. And might I suggest the truth is your one viable option. Tell me what you know about Martin Paslow?"
"I'm led to believe he was killed by his daughter."
"There can be no trust without truth, my friend. And I must warn you I have drugs that make thiopental sodium and scopolamine look like a mild analgesic, but it does have one serious side effect, it fries the brain. So I'll ask you again. What happened to Paslow?"
"We tried to make it look like suicide, but the dosage was messed up."
"Why him?" asked McKenzie.
"He was asking questions, and they were questions that indicated absolute knowledge. Someone had tipped him off, he had to be silenced."
"Couldn't he have been brought off?"
"Remember the bible story where the devil takes Jesus to the top of the mountain and unsuccessfully offers Him the world if He will just once bow down to the devil. Jesus refused. Well let me assure you the devil stood a better chance with the Lord than I would have had with Paslow."
"Did you ever locate the leak?"
"No."
"So there's still someone out there who knows the truth?" said McKenzie. "Find him, and when you're at it find Calin Roberts and Director Meredith Paslow."
"What do we do when we find them?"
"Surely that's obvious, even to you," the tone was filled with hostility. "You locate them and then kill them before they find someone who's prepared to listen to their claims."
| Author Notes | Sorry, this is 1,800 words. There was nowhere to make a break |
By bob cullen
A degree of pessimism settled upon them. Sure, they had survived another day but they'd made no real progress. Once more they had escaped the prying eyes of Washington, but they remained on the run. Reality painted a grim picture. Once again they were stranded without transport and around one hundred miles from the destination they needed to be, Washington. Darkness had fallen, it remained their one ally. They needed someplace to stay.
"Perhaps we should split up?" suggested Meredith. "That would give us two chances of getting to Washington."
"Director, getting to Washington's not the problem; the difficulty we face is finding someone to listen to us once we get there. We're seen as the enemy," Tyler replied. "Our only real chance is locating the person who contacted your father. Have you any idea who that might have been? Did you run a search on his computer?"
"There was nothing there," she replied.
"Do you have any friends in the media?"
"No. In the interest of maintaining credibility and a degree of anonymity I shied away from public comment, I left that to Walter and the PR people."
"Any enemies then," asked Kenni. "Maybe critic's is a better term?"
"Plenty of them," she replied. "There was one reporter with the Post, can't think of his name but he rarely allowed a week to pass without an attack on either the Department or me. Sometimes the comments were personal, sometimes they were petty but more often they were amazingly accurate. The obvious became apparent. The reporter had a source, someone who enjoyed access to my correspondence and my office. I suspected Delta but found no proof. Then his column ceased and he disappeared off the journalistic landscape."
"Can you recall his name?" continued Kenni.
"I'm not even sure it is a he, the writer used the psuedonym, 'From The Inside.'"
"Do you remember the specifics of any of the articles?" Kenni observed closely. Meredith's composure exploded into anger.
"The day before my father died the reporter let fly with a really vindictive tirade. It was as if he knew my father was dying." Her voice was raised. Like lava rushing from a volcano her words erupted from her mouth in fiery rage. "He wrote about my father's shame in having to witness his own daughter authorising attacks on innocents abroad all in the name of establishing her own platform for power. Then a series of rhetorical questions were posed. What threat did a tiny village in Iran pose to the USA? What facts had been established prior to validating such an attack? Was the action discussed with the President? Were the Military leaders in the Pentagon consulted? Or was it just a malicious and unwarranted attack launched by a woman with Presidential ambition?
"He concluded the article with these words. And I believe my quote is accurate. 'Integrity in the Paslow family will die with the father. My only hope is that Martin has no knowledge of his daughter's recent behaviour as I fear such knowledge could well bring about a premature end to his own life. I further hope Martin has an armed guard at his bedside, he may well need it.'" Tears were now in evidence.
"We need to find him," said Kenni. "He's probably our last chance of establishing a link to who's behind all of this."
"And we need to find him before anyone else does," added Arthur.
"Kenni's right, Director," said Tyler. "And I speak from experience. Sometimes your enemies are your greatest allies." Meredith's glare suggested confusion. Tyler continued. "Allow me to explain, Director.
"At this moment public opinion sees you as a killer, Arthur and I are being portrayed as rogue agents and Kenni is a crooked cop. Denials count for nothing. As do the facts. Every TV story and newspaper article tells the same story, we are the bad guys. We need to change that image. So how do we do that? We have no access to media, but this reporter does."
"Are you suggesting we enlist the aid of the journalist?" asked Meredith.
"Director, our options are non-existent. We can surrender and plead our innocence or we can fight to prove our case. In our present situation the truth is worthless; the programmed lies contain more credibility. We need a voice."
"Why not go to a more reputable source, maybe someone like Sixty Minutes?"
"Do you really think a program like Sixty Minutes would stake their reputation on us? They might agree to talk when it's all over."
"Tell me Tyler, how do you propose to win over the reporter?"
"I'll offer him the one prize he most wants."
"And what's that?"
"The head of Meredith Paslow."
"Why doesn't that fill me with confidence?"
"Director, at this moment I'm not all that strong on confidence either," said Tyler. "In fact if we're really honest, we have to accept our chances of survival are beyond our capability, we'd be better off trying to strike a deal."
"No way," said Arthur. "I'll die before I deal with the devil."
"I'm with you, Arthur," agreed Tyler. "I wasn't for a minute proposing we do that, I was just emphasising the hopelessness of our situation. Death with torture is our best outcome. You know me, I'll never surrender."
"You guys really know how to relieve a girl's fears," said Jess with a smile. "And here I was dreaming of a shopping visit to Harrod's"
"On behalf of Tyler, I'll promise you that treat," said Arthur.
"Deal." Tyler offered his hand to Jess.
"Sorry to put a dampener of the party," said Kenni. "But can we get out of here, I get the feeling we're being watched. Besides which I'm damn near exhausted. I don't know how much longer I can go on."
"Can we use your father's cabin again, Director?" asked Tyler.
"It's a long walk."
The Toyota Camry was parked in the street outside an apartment block. It was an older model around ten years old, a thief's dream, no alarm, no steering wheel locking device and unbelievably unlocked. More importantly, an I-phone sat on the passenger's seat. They had located transport and communication.
In less than an hour they walked through the door of the lakeside cottage. Ten minutes later and four of the five were sleeping. Tyler had drawn the first security watch. He sat at the computer and searched the files. He found a series of names, some he knew, some he didn't. He listed the unfamiliar names on a pad. After an hour he had seven names to investigate. Now he turned his attention to google.
The first four names yielded nothing of value; there were numerous mentions on google but nothing of significance. The fifth name excited immediately, one word, journalist, stood out. Meredith's suspicion regarding the writer's sex had been confirmed. From The Inside now had a name, Sarah Randolph.
He reached for the car owner's phone. He checked the time on the computer, 11.48 pm. He called the Post. Sarah Randolph wasn't available, that didn't surprise. A request for her phone number was denied. Tyler then asked to be connected to the Editor on duty.
"In regards to what?" the receptionist demanded. Was it attitude or management direction? Tyler hoped it was the latter.
"The biggest story of the year."
"I'll need more detail."
"I have information on the whereabouts of Meredith Paslow. If you don't put me to Miss Randolph immediately I'll take what I have to CNN."
"Connecting you."
"David Lloyd." The editor's response was slow. And impatient in tone, he was a man in a hurry.
"Mr. Lloyd, my name is Calin Roberts. I'm travelling with Meredith Paslow." Tyler knew he now had the attention of the night editor. "The Director would like to arrange a private meeting with Sarah Randolph. This is a one-off offer. I need to talk to Miss Randolph now."
"I'll get her on the line."
"Sir, you misunderstand, I'll either talk to her direct or not at all. The choice is yours, give me her number." There was hesitation. "You've got three seconds. One. Two...." He provided the number.
"Sarah Randolph." It was obvious, sleep had been disturbed.
"Would you like to meet with Director Paslow?"
"Where and when?" The drowsiness had been replaced by total awareness.
"I'll pick you up nine o'clock tomorrow morning outside the US Court on 4th Street between Constitution Ave and C Street. And one word of warning Sarah, don't try any trick. If I see any form of surveillance, and I will see it, the meeting's off." Calin paused.
"My name is Calin Roberts, I take it you're aware of my reputation and of the allegations surrounding me. Like those aimed at the Director, they are all fabrications. These lies form a conspiracy unlike anything this country has seen before." Another pause. She asked no questions.
"And allow me to offer one further piece of advice. Get out of your apartment now and don't tell anyone where you're going. The people I'm referring to employ assassination to ensure their secret remains intact."
"How did you identify me?"
"Your name was on Martin Paslow's computer. There were no details, just your name so I googled it and discovered you were a journalist. I then put two and two together. Time is running out, Sarah. I need your answer."
"Can I trust you?"
"Sarah, if I wanted you harmed, I'd not be making this call. You would already be dead. Advising your target is not a practice used in my profession. So, what's it to be?"
"I'll be there."
"Make sure there are people around you. Wear slacks and carry a laptop."
| Author Notes | Calin Roberts is an operative with Homeland Security. While his name appears on no official documentation, his reputation is both known and feared throughout the corridors of Washington |
By bob cullen
*
"How did you discover her identity?" asked Meredith. They were driving towards Washington. Tyler had a rendezvous with Sarah Randolph in three hours. Meredith sat beside Tyler as he drove. Jess and Kenni slept in the rear seat. Arthur sat between them awaiting Tyler's reply
"I just used my natural charm," Tyler replied. He then told of his discovery and follow-up.
"One thing worries me, Tyler," said Arthur.
"I'm listening."
"That I-phone bothers me. A lot of them contain GPS tracing equipment, so I'd suggest we dump it."
*
Why hadn't her mother called, the morning chat was a daily ritual? She had slept in, had she missed the call. Or was something wrong? She reached for her bag. The phone wasn't there. She remembered the call she'd made while driving home. Her boyfriend was out drinking and he wasn't coming around. She had thrown the phone on the passenger's seat in disgust.
Still in her pyjamas she ran downstairs to her car. It wasn't there. Anger swept over her. Some bastard had stolen it. She'd lost her two most valuable possessions, her car and her phone. Why the car? It was damn near worthless. She had to notify the police. She couldn't, her phone was in the car. She tried to think of the nearest pay phone. Her memory failed. It was so long since she'd needed one.
She lodged the report of the theft around eleven, advising police of the phones GPS's tracing capability. It was tracked to a garbage bin in Washington. The last two phone calls were identified, both around midnight. The first to the Washington Post and the second to Sarah Randolph. The reporter's phone was now switched off. The car was located near to where the phone had been found. It was now in possession of forensic investigators. They would find nothing. It had been professionally cleaned of identifiable features.
*
Long ago Tyler had established his own secured location just outside of Washington. He dropped his companions there while he cycled back into the city for the rendezvous with Sarah Randolph. Again he adopted his 'blind and homeless Afghanistan vet outfit.' People moved aside to allow the cripple room to pass. He saw a woman carrying a laptop. She didn't fit the image he'd envisioned. He then saw the woman beside her; she was wearing a mini-skirt and she focused intently on studying every passer-by. She hadn't even rated the cripple a second glance. Tyler walked to the nearest seat, sat down and pulled a sheet and a thick texta pen from his pocket. He wrote one word. CLEVER. He walked past the court house a second time and paused long enough to attract the attention of the reporter. He nodded his head and walked away. Tyler never once turned back. He sensed she was following. And he was right. He walked into a restroom and emerged a minute later, a cyclist wheeling a bike and wearing lycra.
"Sarah, would you care for a ride?"
"I can't get on that thing wearing this." She attempted to drag the skirt down her thighs. The perils of fashion. He smiled at her discomfort.
"You can if you want the story."
"Don't turn around." Her voice conveyed anger and indignity.
"Well snuggle up tight and no one will see. Didn't I tell you to wear slacks?"
"I thought that advice was to make for an easy ID."
"Sarah, Facebook provided that," Tyler answered. Already he'd decided, he didn't like her. "Give me your computer."
"Why?"
"I'll secure it to ensure it doesn't fall off. You're going to need it before this day is out. Are you always this argumentative?"
"Only when I deal with arseholes," she snapped.
"Mount up, Sarah," he said as he handed her a helmet fitted with headset. On his helmet there was a tiny microphone. "We've got quite a ride and it will get mighty uncomfortable. These seats weren't designed for comfort, or for small bums.
"Before we get into stride however, let's get a few things straight, here and now. First, I'm not forcing your participation, in fact quite the opposite. I must also warn you this conversation is being recorded. Do you understand, Please respond with yes or no." Her tone signified anger.
"I've not only invited you, I'm offering you the greatest opportunity you'll ever receive. Second, now you've agreed to present this story, I'm your protection. The minute you agreed to meet with us, your life became threatened. Your life is indeed in my hands. We're not dealing with ordinary street crims here; we're facing people with power beyond your conception." They were now proceeding along Constitution Ave at good pace, The Ellipse off to their right. Minutes later they crossed the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge.
"So might I suggest you drop the attitude? And the same applies to your dealings with the Director. She is without a doubt the most honourable person I've ever dealt with. Her job calls on her to make decisions very few people would have the courage to make. And your article was grossly offensive and inaccurate in every sense. Your source, whoever he or she was had a hidden agenda, one determined to undermine the integrity and position of Meredith."
By bob cullen
Conversation, or rather the lecture lasted no more than five minutes. The endurance of the rider amazed her. About twenty minutes into the journey she saw another cyclist approach. Tyler pulled to a halt as did the other rider. Sarah dismounted, her rear end screaming in pain. She recognised the second rider, momentarily his named escaped her. Memory returned. It was the former champion junior tennis player, Arthur Ashe. After grabbing her computer she saddled up behind Arthur.
"It's not much further," Arthur said. His height astonished her; he'd never seemed that tall on television. His smile did likewise. He was much more handsome in person than on television, his teeth gleamed and his eyes sparkled. What was his role in all of this? "Sarah, we'd better get going."
The house was set on fifteen acres and positioned about a hundred yards off the road. Two-storied and around forty years old it appeared in good condition. A couple of horses grazed in the fields. A large open barn, housed a ride-on mower, a small tractor while a Ford pick-up truck sat adjacent to the home. A vegetable garden flourished. It was surrounded by fruit trees. A rundown tennis court with tattered net completed the idyllic picture. The journalist wondered who it belonged too. She'd give anything to own a place like this. Country life had long been her dream. City life sucked.
She recalled the words of Tyler. Be courteous to Director Paslow? Don't judge her on the words of Walter Parnell? The man was a liar, past tense. How did Tyler know of Parnell's death. Details of his death hadn't been released? Had Tyler been involved in the murder? He was by his own admission, a killer.
Sarah came up with a decision, Tyler couldn't be trusted. Nor could the woman he worked for. He killed on command, and she issued the commands. Parnell on the other hand had been executed by a professional killer and the assassin had escaped. The case against Tyler strengthened. Tyler was the liar, and, in all possibility, the killer of Parnell.
All thoughts of apologising to Paslow vanished. Sarah would provoke a response; antagonism was such a powerful tool. She wanted Meredith on edge, didn't want to allow her time to think. She was the one who had to remain sharp. In one sense she hoped for a one-on-one interview, a situation where she could demand answers. Sarah was looking forward to the confrontation. She would find the truth.
Arthur rode up to the garage. He parked the bike next to the ride on mower. Thirty seconds later Tyler arrived. "What kept you?" asked Arthur.
Sarah, computer in hand dashed towards the house. She found Meredith and two other women watching a news program on television. Distress was apparent. The Director appeared to be near tears. Sarah wondered what had triggered the grief. The pictures, obviously taken from the air showed a large lake and a home engulfed by fire.
The journalist then heard the newsreader. "...investigators believe Meredith Paslow, along with two Agents from her Department named Tyler Spellman and Arthur Ashe and two yet to be identified women had vacated the cabin only minutes prior to it erupting into a ball of flame. Arson is suspected. Further details will be advised, if available prior to this bulletin ending."
"Will the lies ever end?" snapped Meredith. "It's just another stitch-up, one more piece of fabricated evidence to ensure conviction." Sarah noted the anger. It sounded genuine.
"Did you do it?" The reporter made no effort to contain her aggression. She sensed Paslow's fragility as opportunity. A weakened adversary was often an easy target.
"Why bother with questions now, Sarah? Your earlier articles indicate you've already determined my guilt. Why then did you bother to come?"
"Should I take your refusal to answer my question as confirmation that you did indeed set fire to the house we just saw on television?"
"Having read what you've written I know one thing, Sarah. Truth doesn't appear to be a factor you value. But to satisfy your question, I had nothing to do with the fire. We were there, I won't deny that. But we were not the arsonists. When we departed the house was in perfect condition. It's my belief the cottage, which incidentally was owned by a friend of my late father's, was destroyed because someone believed my father may have stored incriminating evidence there."
"What sort of evidence are you referring to?"
"Before we go into detail, I must issue a warning. The minute you air my allegations, you, Sarah Randolph become a target. I'm sure Tyler has mentioned this fact. This is neither exaggeration nor scare tactic. The death toll is already approaching twenty and it extends from an innocent small child, his father was the actual target, to a most influential Senator."
"Can you prove any of this?"
"At this stage no."
"Can you provide me with any detail I can print, the name of the Senator, perhaps?
"Didn't you write an obituary of a prominent Senator this past week, Sarah?" Meredith's question shook her up.
"Surely, you're not referring to Cameron McIntosh. He was a personal friend of mine."
"Personal friend," the attack had been reversed. "Rumour suggests your relationship extended way beyond friendship."
"I've heard enough, I want to leave," said Sarah.
"Was he one of your sources, Sarah. Along with Deputy Director Walter Parnell? Perhaps that makes you an accessary after the fact?"
"You're lying." Doubt invaded. Much of what she had written had come from these men, she had trusted them implicitly. Had they used her? Or was Meredith Paslow lying? She was confused.
Sarah needed time to think, to reassess. 'May I please have a few minutes, alone? I need to take a walk to clear my head?" She needed to make a phone call. She had two phones with her, the normal cell she carried in her pocket and a smaller one she had taped to the small of her back.
"Jess will go with you." It was a direction, not a suggestion. Sarah glanced at the petite, and till now silent bodyguard Meredith had assigned. She would present no difficulty, one blow and she would snap.
"Don't do anything silly," said Meredith as she studied Sarah. Meredith recognised how lucky she'd been, two desperation guesses had centred on the target. She'd known nothing of any relationship between the journalist and McIntosh. Similarly the assertion referring to him and Parnell as sources had been a blind shot in the dark.
The reporter's cockiness had dissolved. Certainty had surrendered to doubt. "And maybe it might be a good idea if you left your phone with me." Sarah's reaction surprised Meredith; it was surrender without a fight. She threw a phone onto the couch next to where Meredith sat. Every instinct warned Meredith, Sarah had some form of back-up.
As Jess followed Sarah, Meredith said. "Make sure she makes no phone call." Jess thumbed up.
*
Sarah burst into a run the instant she passed through the back door. In a matter of seconds the obvious became apparent, there was no way she could outrun her pursuer. She stopped and turned to face Jess.
"Jess, there's two ways for this to end. You either let me make my call, or you get hurt." Sarah reached behind her back and freed the phone. Jess grabbed for it and missed, Sarah's punch however landed with precision, Jess went down, stunned but conscious.
She started dialling. The call went to message. "Call me back, it's urgent. Paslow's here."
A minute later the phone rang. Sarah answered on the first chime. In the same instant Jess sprang to her feet snatched the phone from Sarah's grasp and bolted back towards the house. She clipped the phone shut severing the connection.
"How dare you steal my phone," Sarah screamed as she charged back into the house.
"Stop now." Meredith's voice conveyed absolute authority. It would have stopped a train. It barely slowed Sarah. Tyler introduced a physical element into the situation. He physically restrained her.
"Didn't I warn you about making phone calls?"
"You forget, Director, you're under suspension, suspected of murder," replied Sarah. "You have no authority here. Or anywhere for that matter."
"Who did you call?"
"Fuck you." An instant later she screamed with pain, Tyler had applied further pressure to the arm lock.
"Guess that gets you off on the charge of accessary," said Meredith. "But you'll now need one smart lawyer to argue against a charge of aiding and abetting. That, by the way is a capital crime carrying a penalty of life or the chair. Of course that depends on your living long enough to get to trial. No one else has survived that far."
"I've an idea," said Tyler. "Why don't we put Sarah's friends to the test? Why don't we secure her inside the house, with her phone which probably has GPS technology installed and see what happens. It would be one way for Sarah to gauge their real loyalty."
"No."
"Don't you trust them, Sarah?" Now it was Arthur's turn. "Sarah, you're no different to Cameron and Walter, you're now a liability, one that knows too much. They however have a way of minimising these risks, Sarah, they kill them. It's the one guaranteed way of ensuring secrecy. Dead people don't talk."
"Tie her to a chair, Tyler," ordered Meredith. She now addressed Sarah. "Here's your phone, make the call." Tyler punched the speaker function then the redial button and held the phone to her ear. They all heard the response. The voice was unmistakeable, the accent remained. No one in Washington was more admired that the man affectionately known by the nickname Aristotle. He was the President's closest and most trusted confidante. Some even claimed he was the prime decision maker in the White House. Sarah only sobbed. Tyler disconnected.
"Choice is yours, Sarah. You can wait here in the hope your friend will ride to your rescue, or you can come testify with us," offered Meredith. "I don't want to rush you, but you have ten seconds."
"We don't have enough room," said Tyler. "The pick-up only seats five." Tyler headed for the door, the two girls and Arthur followed.
"Time's up, Sarah," Meredith said. "I'm going now."
"Please don't leave me," cried Sarah. Meredith untied her and they too ran from the house.
They had travelled no more than five miles when they saw the Blackhawk flying towards them at minimum altitude and near maximum speed.
"No prizes for guessing where that's going," said Tyler. "It's for you, Sarah." Her sobbing grew in its intensity.
By bob cullen
With all safe houses either pulled apart by investigators or damaged by fire, they had few options. Sarah provided the answer, the cosy retreat she had often shared with Cameron McIntosh. It was secluded and known only to his most trusted friends.
"Does Aristotle know?" Sarah shook her head. "Tell me about him," said Meredith. "How did he come by the name Aristotle?"
"There's not a lot known about his early days other than he was born in one of the poorer parts of Athens. He has written an autobiography but no one has ever dared to question its authenticity or accuracy. A fellow journalist once attempted to research his background but came up with nothing. No one was prepared to talk about Aristotle's past. When the reporter continued his digging he received threats. Then when he persisted further he had an accident. His car ran off the road and he was killed."
"Did Cameron ever mention him?" Meredith's curiosity was rising. She knew Aristotle and had often questioned his origins and his wealth. Though never mentioned in the top ten by the Forbes Rich List, she had been told his wealth far exceeded that of Bill Gates, the perennial No. 1 on the published list
"Often, he called him friend but he never trusted him. They traded favours. A deal approved by an appropriations committee was rewarded with a womanising week for the boys at one of his palatial mansions. It went on all the time. Cameron told me everything."
"We saw that," said Jess. "At a Chalet up north. Didn't it bother you? Jesus, Sarah what kind of woman are you? You're screwing someone else's husband and then you standby and allow him to participate in orgies with other women?"
"Were you the ones who trussed him up and then set the journalist and cameraman on him?" Her anger was rising. She was beginning to wish she'd hit Jess even harder.
"Did you hear the entire story? How the cameraman, a reporter named Rachel Costello and three girls were killed when their helicopter was shot down."
"Cameron never lied to me, told me the whole story. It was an accident. It crashed as it was coming in to land. He was most upset, I heard him arguing with Aristotle about it."
"Sarah, this is most important," said Tyler. "Do you remember exactly when they had this argument?"
"I think it was a day or two before Cameron died."
"He didn't die, Sarah. He was executed. And I'll bet my life on that. Trust me, Cameron McIntosh was executed on the orders of Aristotle."
"You're lying." Tears were once more on display.
"Journalists live by logic, Sarah," said Meredith. "Apply some now. Connect the dates then relate them to what has transpired. It all fits and you hold the key to everything, Sarah."
"We're not blaming Senator McIntosh for the helicopter passenger's deaths." Meredith knew the futility of continuing the attack on Sarah's part-time lover. "Sure, he may have called on Aristotle for assistance but he didn't issue the instruction to shoot the aircraft down. Nor did he volunteer his own life in the hope of saving Aristotle. Every order to execute came from the Greek. Cameron's only mistake was in becoming involved with Aristotle. And if you want to avenge Cameron's death, you have to help us nail the bastard. And I promise you, we will get him."
"What can I do?"
"Write down everything you remember, going back as far as your memory takes you. Nothing is irrelevant. What names were mentioned? Did Aristotle ever mention my father? Or Calin Roberts for that matter?
"Before you do that however, why don't you show us around the house?" The tour was amazing; the home had features Vogue didn't know existed. Nine bathrooms, an inside spa and three quarter sized Olympic pool, a gymnasium, three kitchens, a theatre and enough bedrooms to house a football team. It wasn't a home; it was a five star resort. Had Jess or Tyler been asked they would have agreed it was the Chalet on a smaller scale.
On checking out the refrigerators and pantries Meredith issued one instruction. 'Tonight we relax. Tomorrow we'll go into battle. So you've got around three hours till dinner which I'll prepare. The time between now and then is yours. So I'd suggest you all find your own amusement. I'll call you twenty minutes prior to serving that will allow you to clean up. Sarah tells me there are closets filled with beautiful evening apparel in every size, so I'm looking forward to a night of glamour."
Jess headed to the gym, Tyler the pool while Arthur and Kenni found a snooker table. Sarah refused all invitations. Instead she found a room where she started on her list. And Meredith worked off her frustrations in the kitchen. Furthermore it allowed her the solitude to think. How did one approach the President and inform him his best friend was a traitor? It was a task she knew she would have to undertake. And also one, that would provoke denial, dismissal and in all probability instant arrest.
Preparation took her mind off their dilemma. Cooking was an escape. Time flew by, the starter course was ready. It was time to call. Tyler and Jess were ready, Kenni and Arthur were asleep and Sarah had gone missing. Dinner was forgotten and a search of the house undertaken. They found her computer and powered it on. The onscreen message destroyed all appetite. 'You're right Meredith, and that makes me as guilty as them. I can't live with this. Sorry.'
They found her hanging from a tree.
| Author Notes | Another short chapter |
By bob cullen
"What's the plan now?" asked Arthur. Their final source was dead.
"Shouldn't we leave that decision to Meredith?" Tyler answered.
"Time's running out."
"Are you suggesting we let Calin loose?"
"I was thinking more on the lines of Calin and his twin."
"Do we tell the girls?" asked Tyler.
"I'm not in the mood for an argument."
"When?"
"Before sunrise," said Arthur.
"Sleep well my brother. I'll be waiting for you at three."
"We'll need weapons."
"There's bound to be an armoury here. I'll find it while everyone's sleeping."
"Three it is." They bumped knuckles, agreement reached. They walked into a silent room, three women observing their entry.
"Why are you guys so damn predictable," said Jess. "How dumb do you think we are?" Tyler considered interrupting but saw the futility.
Meredith took over from Jess. "Gentlemen, you may have our measure in combat, but you'll never be our equal in matters of the mind. And like it or not, this battle will never be resolved by force. Sure you may kill Aristotle but do you really believe his death will bring conclusion to this drama. Of course not. I have no doubt Aristotle is the organiser, but, and I stress this most emphatically, stopping the organiser will solve nothing. A successor will take control before his breathing stops. What we have to put an end to is the organisation. And that will require all of us."
"Director, I've never before challenged your authority or questioned a decision," said Arthur. "But this time you're wrong. Aristotle has to be stopped."
"I'm in full agreement, Arthur. But let me put it to you another way. Diverting a swollen river never stops the flood, it merely redirects it. That's precisely what will happen if we move too early on Aristotle. And what's worse, it will allow his successors opportunity to go to ground."
"Tell us your plan, Director."
"I don't have one yet. But I'd like to learn more about Aristotle and find out why he has the ear of the President? It's almost as if the President is Aristotle's personal puppet"
"May I say something," asked Kenni?
"Of course," said Meredith. "Your background more than entitles you to input, I've no doubt your investigative skills are far superior to ours. Though sometimes our methods are far more effective than the established justice system. A bullet, I often believe ensures a far more appropriate punishment than one handed down through the courts. And when our penalty is enacted there is no appeal process available and you can guarantee the accused will not reoffend."
"I don't disagree with you, Meredith. Sadly though, in our profession we're held to account. However I must confess, there are times when I'd love to implement your version of justice. Nothing infuriates me more than seeing someone I know to be guilty walking free because his lawyer either bullied and discredited a witness or used some legal technicality to gain acquittal."
Kenni was now on her feet.
"But back to the point here; I'm not so sure it's wise to start enquiring into the background of Aristotle. The minute the first question is asked, he will know we're onto him and he'll commence building an impenetrable defence. I believe surprise is our only weapon against Aristotle. Surprise backed up by irrefutable proof." The policewoman's voice contained both passion and anger.
"Digging into someone's past though is a lot like gold mining, you hope for a discovery but more often than not you come up empty. And in this instance, you can bet your life Aristotle's truth is now buried deeper than any vein of gold ever discovered. He has no doubt crafted a past that provides history and witnesses to every lie he has orchestrated." There was no arguing this fact.
"I know I'm being long-winded, but here is my point. I think concentrating on Aristotle's past is not only futile, it is counterproductive. What I would suggest instead is a thorough going over the evidence we already have. I'd again look into all the victims and try to establish some form connection that establishes a pattern. Sure, we know the majority of them were military. But there had to be more and that's what we must find, for once we know the path that has been taken we have far more chance of assessing the new direction about to be taken. And that, in my opinion is where we'll locate not only Aristotle but also his chain of command."
"Kenni, in two minutes you have summed up this situation to perfection," said Meredith. "But as you know, there is a vast difference between theory and practice. Have you any ideas on how we go about implementing your theory?"
"I'm about to make a phone call, one I dread. But there's now no option."
"You can't call him today," said Arthur. "It's his little boy's funeral."
"That was this morning."
"Detective Paull is grieving."
Arthur's concession stunned her. It was out of character. Minutes earlier, he had been passionate in his opposition to involving Fraser Paull. Now he agreed to her suggestion. Why the change? The obvious became apparent; Arthur had come up with an alternate plan, one that required no outside assistance. One he would undertake alone. Or more likely with Tyler.
How could she convince him? Should she appeal to Tyler? Kenni knew they wouldn't survive without help. And Fraser represented that help. He offered a talent no one else possessed, access to information unavailable to anyone else. His police credentials, for example would enable him to access the FBI fingerprinting database. She made the call.
Fortune was with Kenni, Fraser answered. Emotion was raw in his voice. She could hear the buzz of conversation in the background. She felt guilty on intruding. She should have been there with him. Gerard was her Godchild.
"Sorry I'm not there." She imagined the impact her words had on him. She heard his brief conversation. 'Work, I've got to take it. I can't hear in here, I'll take it outside.'
'Can't they leave you alone for one day?' Kenni recognised the anger in the voice of Fraser's wife. Kenni then heard a door open and close.
"Where are you?"
"Near Washington." She didn't dare be more specific.
"What the hell is going on, Kenni?" Fraser's voice conveyed deep concern.
"Gerard's death," her voice quivered on mentioning the son of Fraser. "Is but the tip of the iceberg and I'm not joking. This could well bring down the President. But I need your help."
"Are you all right?"
"No, to be totally frank, I'm scared shitless." Kenni was, she knew, on the point of breaking. "Every law enforcement officer in the country has a bullet with my name on it."
"What can I do?"
"Get me as much info as you can on Rodwell, his wife and the General. It's more than probable both were implicated in this whole mess. I need their military history, their family background and as much detail as you can gather on their killer. I'd suggest it's more than likely the General and Rodwell's wife were killed by the same person." She decided against telling Fraser the killer was now dead,
"But a word of warning, don't go through the military or police channels, they've been compromised."
"Was this killer the one who planted the bomb?" He had read her mind.
"Yes."
"You weren't going to tell me, were you?"
"No sir, but it doesn't matter anymore, she's now dead."
"Who was she?"
"We don't know." It was the truth. Then she remembered the fingers Tyler had salvaged. "We may have partial prints."
"Get them to me and I'll discover who she was and who employed her."
"I know who she worked for," she replied. "Aristotle."
"Are you referring to Nicholas Papadopoulos, the Presidential advisor?"
"One and the same," Kenni replied. She wasn't sure how much she should tell, but she knew she'd keep talking until Fraser Paull had promised his assistance. "And the political connections don't end there," she continued. "Papadoupolos is also the brother-in-law of Kendall McKenzie, the President's campaign manager. But more important, he is the man who employed and authorised the attack on Gerard." Kenni knew she had said enough. "There is however one minor problem, we've not been able to locate any proof."
"How soon can you get the prints to me?"
"There's a problem. You'll have to come get them." Kenni explained the circumstances along with a brief outline of the past week. In the background, a door slammed; his wife then snapped. 'Damn you Fraser, can't you leave your work for five minutes. Our guests are leaving; don't you have any courtesy?'
"Tomorrow, Lincoln Memorial at twelve." He disconnected and followed Mrs Angry inside. His mind was already on tomorrow. Who did he know at FBI Headquarters? And how quickly could they identify fingerprints? Another question emerged. How quickly after death did fingerprints corrupt?
By bob cullen
It was now Meredith's turn. How would the Senator respond? Meredith had met the woman on no more than a half dozen occasions. She didn't like her. Like all career politicians and high profile business leaders, the woman had two personalities. One for public display and the other when not fronting a camera. Meredith had witnessed both. The woman had one agenda; self-promotion and God help anyone who stood in her way. Behind her back she was known as Katrina, unpredictable, destructive and not to be trusted.
Meredith recalled the wildly acclaimed television interview she'd seen recently. To her credit the lady spoke of her ambition. She responded to the question with surprising openness. Her answer won her a legion of new fans. Meredith wasn't one of them. She had seen the real Adrianna Tollerson in action.
"Yes, the White House is my dream. Reality is however another story. I have any number of hurdles confronting me. I am a woman, I don't have the funds available to initiate let alone support a lengthy campaign and I won't trade my beliefs to woo potential backers. I support America and Americans, not media barons, bankers or oil producers."
In an unprecedented response, the entire production crew burst into applause. The lady was on her way. Like unrefrigerated milk, political acclaim has a short shelf life. Senator Tollerson's interview had faded into yesterday's news. Few recalled her impassioned and patriotic plea. Meredith remembered, what's more she recognised opportunity. She could provide the Senator with further exposure. Would Adrianna though be brave enough to take on both the President and Aristotle?
"Senator Tollerson's phone, the senator's not available. Please leave a message." The response stunned Meredith, she recognised the voice. It was Adrianna's and it wasn't recorded.
"Adrianna, your interview was superb. I can now provide you with the next rung on your ladder. You have five seconds to respond."
"Who are you?"
"I ask the questions, Senator. Are you interested? I promise you there could be a vacancy in the White House in a matter of days. I see a resignation coming.
"Your time is up." Meredith hesitated. The Senator hadn't recognised her voice.
"Don't hang up. Tell me more."
"Not now. Will you meet with me?"
"Who are you?"
"For the time being it's safer if you don't know. Suffice to say, we have met and you are under no threat from me. I must however warn you, if knowledge of your meeting with me becomes public, your life will then be at risk. Decision time, Adrianna."
"Where and when?"
"I'll get back to you."
Meredith dialled a second time. She thanked the Lord for her memory; it was near photographic, particularly in its capacity to recall numbers. Daniel's father answered. "Hello." She hoped that was an indication Daniel had taken her advice and gone into hiding.
"Please pass a message onto Daniel," said the caller. There was no time for greeting. "Tell him there's an extremely urgent e-mail coming his way. Sorry to be so abrupt, but it's a matter of life or death. Thank you. Don't phone him, text him."
She hoped he remembered the addresses they had created years ago. Hers was z7q3$q7@needhelp.com. His was the reverse, q7$z7z3@needhelp.com. The translation was simple, the z identified the line on the keyboard commencing with z, the 7 identified the seventh letter on that line, M. q3 was the third letter on the top alphabetical row, the E. The $ represented 4. q7 equated to U. Total message, me 4 u and the reverse, u 4 me.
She penned the e-mail. 'Need a delivery man. If available, please respond.'
She sat and waited. A reply would clarify two points, first he was still alive and second she had found her courier. No reply on the other hand would intensify her fears. She didn't have long to wait. 'Unemployed, in need of work.' Relief flooded through her. Unemployed was so much better than dead.
'Where and when.' It was the second time in less than four minutes she'd heard the same two questions. His query returned her to the present. A brief consultation with Tyler provided the answer.
'The cripple's going to be in his usual spot in an hour. Suggest you wear your old uniform and move him on.' There was no further communication.
At first Daniel didn't like the idea. Bullying an old soldier, a crippled one at that was a sure way to attract a crowd. Particularly if the soldier screamed in protest as he knew Tyler would. After a moment's thought, Daniel recognised the brilliance behind the idea. Getaways were always easier when people became noisy and boisterous. Both he and Tyler would vanish without notice, the delivery completed.
He observed Tyler from a distance; tonight he was an angry man. He was agitated, talking to himself. He rattled the tin, recited some poetry and screamed about the indifferent attitude of politicians. The same note lay at his feet; 'BLIND & HOMELESS, Afghanistan vet.' People held back fearing the madman.
Daniel approached, walked up to and dropped some coins into the tin.
"Make you feel better?" challenged the man on the ground. "A few coins for my broken legs and a burger too, how very generous." The donor offered the food he carried. Every passer-by's eyes were locked on the abusive man. After examining the food, the cripple hurled it back at the donor in the policeman uniform. Watchers were aghast at the behaviour. Their shock intensified on hearing the policeman's reply.
"Afghanistan my arse," yelled the policeman. "Why don't you tell people the truth about your legs? There's nothing wrong with them. You're nothing but a fraud, sponging off people's kindness." The cripple jumped to his feet, grabbed his crutches and started swinging them at the retreating policeman. He then hurled them towards Daniel and ran off into the night.
Tyler reflected on what had happened. It carried all the earmarks of Meredith. Daniel had been the courier. His ability to ad lib amazed him. The argument hadn't intimidated him and he'd come prepared, the coins and the burger were clever touches. The burger had to have been Meredith's idea, they'd used it before. And it had gone undetected; no one had seen him insert the tiny sealed bag containing the killer's severed fingers and an address inside the food bag. All attention had been riveted on his outburst.
It was good to be working with Meredith again, against a common enemy. There was however a major problem, the suspect Aristotle enjoyed Presidential support. How did one inform the President his closest associate was a traitor? Particularly, when there was no evidence to substantiate the allegation.
Despite Meredith's argument, which he recognised as valid, Tyler favoured the assassination solution. It would buy them time. Would it though see Meredith cleared of the innuendo surrounding her father's death? Tyler feared not. Smeared, as she had been by Parnell, Meredith's career was finished. Her one hope of absolution lay with an Aristotle confession. And dead men don't talk. If captured though, would Aristotle talk, depends on the methods employed? Conventional questioning would achieve absolute denials. As he headed back to the mansion of Senator McIntosh, Tyler hoped Meredith had a plan. He wouldn't be disappointed.
By bob cullen
They sat around the dining table. Pads and pens positioned in front of each of them. Last to arrive, Tyler recognised the newcomer. Daniel still wore the police uniform. Meredith was seated at the table's head. "Sit down, Tyler." He complied without question.
"I've come up with a plan I'd like to run by you all," she commenced. In front of her she placed a single sheet of paper containing no more than a half dozen lines. "We all know time is fast running out. We also know Aristotle is the enemy. And finally, we have no evidence to prove our case. Guess you could say we're running on empty. That being the case, we've nothing to lose. So tomorrow's our day.
"Prior to outlining my proposal, I'd like to thank you all for the support you've provided these past couple of weeks. Your unqualified trust during this period fills me with gratitude far beyond any words I might offer. I will value your friendship until the day I die." Emotion, a trait normally foreign to Meredith was obvious.
"Now on the plan, feel free at any time to interrupt though it may be simpler if you jot down notes and we leave discussion until the end. Either way, your input is both invited and necessary. Firstly, there are several issues that have already been determined. For example Daniel's meeting with Fraser Paull tomorrow morning to pass on the fingers." She took a sip of water from her glass.
"I'm hoping Fraser can arrange DNA testing of the fingers along with the fingerprinting. We must pursue every avenue of investigation available, in the hope of snaring a break though. At the same time we must pray that absolute secrecy can be maintained." Meredith glanced down at her notes.
"Before going into more detail, I would like to suggest we enlist the support of a prominent Senator I spoke to yesterday. It was, let me assure you, an anonymous call. She has no idea of my identity. And, let me stress, she has no knowledge of our situation. And most important of all, she is a very vocal opponent of the President."
"Are you by any chance referring to Senator Adrianna Tollerson?" asked Jess.
"Got it in one, do you know something about her?"
"Only what I've read. She's said to be tenacious, ambitious and afraid of no one. When she takes on a cause she doesn't let go. Mightn't that be to our disadvantage?" Jess replied.
"She won't be in a position to say anything until other matters have been clarified. But more on the good Senator latter," explained Meredith. "Let me assure you however, I'm using her simply to be our mouthpiece and the mouth won't open until it has irrefutable proof."
"How can you be sure she'll respond to an anonymous tip-off?" asked Kenni.
"Jess summed her up beautifully when she used the word ambitious. I saw Adrianna interviewed recently and she spoke openly of a desire to be in the White House. To achieve such a goal she needs to create the image of a power player and to be seen as a doer rather than as a talker. Bringing down an incumbent President along with one of his foremost advisors would land her on centre stage."
"So how do you get her involved? You've not answered that." Kenni persisted. "There is a law against kidnapping."
"There's also a law against framing people for things they've not done," snapped Meredith. "And I don't see anyone promoting our innocence, Kenni. I have a question back at you, if you're such a believer in your justice system, why not hand yourself in? Throw yourself at the mercy of the law."
"Point taken."
"Sorry, I didn't mean to get so wound up. But you're right, initially we may require some persuasion to get Senator Tollerson here. But the minute she hears the truth I have no doubt she'll become an ally."
"How do we convince her we're speaking the truth, when you've already admitted we have no evidence?" asked Kenni.
"Haven't I mentioned our witness yet?"
Tyler looked across at Arthur. He feared what was coming. They were about to be assigned the impossible, the apprehension of Nicholas Papadoupolos.
"And when is this to happen?" asked Tyler.
"You've got two days," said Meredith. "Hopefully by then we'll know the owner of those two fingers."
"Any suggestions on how we convince Aristotle to firstly surrender and then to cooperate?"
"Tyler, you know me, I always allow my operatives to plan their own missions. I just provide the target."
"You can't be serious," said Arthur perfecting the phrase made famous by his one-time idol John McInroe. "The man's protected by an army of security guards. We'd have more chance taking Fort Knox."
"Two days, boys," said Meredith. "And once you have him, you have twenty four hours to coerce a confession and establish his chain of command. Then we hand control to the FBI and we hope to God their ranks haven't been infiltrated."
"Does it matter how we get the confession?"
"Do whatever is necessary, but keep him alive."
"Can you supply us with thiopental sodium or its equivalent?" asked Arthur.
"At the moment I couldn't get you cough drops."
"I guess that leaves the physical approach, will it matter if he has a few scars?"
"Just ensure he is breathing."
"Are you going to film the interrogation?" asked Arthur.
"Only the confession," Meredith replied.
"Should we cover our faces?" asked Arthur.
"Won't be necessary. Aristotle will never get to trial." Meredith's admission surprised neither Arthur nor Tyler. Aristotle had more than enough money to circumvent justice. If he went to trial his lawyers would get him bail and he'd disappear. They would just short cut the disappearance. First though they had to find him.
They all left the table and relocated in to the theatrette. Daniel had arranged the entertainment, a short film on Aristotle. He had found it on u-tube. It commenced with a shot from a helicopter of his residence. It showed only external images.
The house was immense and secured. It was a fortress. Armed guards stood by the front and rear doors. Others patrolled the property's perimeter. A dozen Doberman dogs pranced back and forth and cameras continually swept in all directions. Odds, forty to one plus dogs, there could be no attack here.
The cameras next zeroed in on a massive garage. One door was open, a black Hummer emerged. It rolled up to the house's front door. Aristotle emerged, an armed guard on either shoulder. He strolled the fifteen metres from house to vehicle. One guard entered the passenger's compartment, climbed out then gave the all clear for Aristotle to enter. He then followed. The second guard retreated back to the house. The vehicle's windows were tinted which prevented the viewers from seeing if another guard accompanied the driver up front. Was the driver armed? Odds, three or four to one, feasible perhaps, it was a definite option, but unattractive.
Urgency demanded a reassessment. The vehicle sat low on the road, a sure indication of armour plating. So it would be a case of two unprotected gunmen against three to four armour protected guards with the ability to call for reinforcements. That too was impossible.
The camera's final sweep showed distant images of the Pentagon and the White House, two of the most heavily protected buildings in the entire world, and both far beyond the capacity of a two man attack.
"Does it travel the same route every day?" asked Tyler. "And do you have pictures of that route?"
"The answer to the first question is yes, but we don't have pictures" said Daniel as he scrambled for the internet link. "However, if you give me a minute I might be able to draw the road up on google earth."
"It sure is pretty," said Jess. It was a tree lined avenue, one way in each direction. The land blocks were large and the homes huge. Traffic was light, almost non-existent.
Arthur and Tyler watched the same footage, their eyes however sought out a point of weakness none appeared. There were opportunities to take the vehicle and passengers out. Death though wasn't an option. Aristotle had to be taken alive.
"Can we go back to the vision of the Hummer?" said Tyler. Another memory had resurfaced. Security is only as good as the soldiers enforcing it. "We need to take another look at those guards."
Observation confirmed his thoughts. Discipline was lacking. The guard who accompanied Aristotle into the passenger's compartment had disconnected his headset communication prior to securing the door and appeared more interested in the i-pad he carried than in the employer he was paid to protect.
"He's the weakness," said Tyler. "We just need to create a disturbance that brings him into play."
"Any ideas?" asked Arthur.
"Let's adjourn someplace and talk." The two Calin's ventured outside. Ten minutes later they returned. Tyler addressed his question to Meredith.
"Can you get me a couple of bulldozers?"
"No, but I know there is a large construction site nearby. Do you have a plan?" asked Meredith.
"How near?" How did one go about stealing bulldozers in the middle of the night?
"A couple of miles."
The Hummer sped along on its morning drive towards Washington. The driver swore as he saw the woman holding the road works sign. A large smoke polluting bulldozer was coming to life.
The driver thought about ignoring the woman, and overtaking the road building monster. He slowed to a stop. He turned around to advise his employer of the delay. The guard travelling with Aristotle asked if he should get out and investigate. Aristotle told him to relax.
The bulldozer was reversing towards them, the driver blasted his horn. The guard jumped out, a silenced shot from behind dropped him to the ground. Tyler then reached into the passenger compartment, fired a second shot through the open partition between driver and passenger. The driver died instantly. Tyler eased himself in beside Aristotle.
By bob cullen
Tyler's eyes never left the Greek. There was neither panic nor fear, just the captured soldier's hostility. The prisoner was still dangerous and far from defeated. He had to be broken, and quickly. Time was against them.
Tyler saw Aristotle reach for his gold necklace. Tyler suspected there might be an alarm. His reaction was swift. He smashed the butt of his pistol into the unprotected knuckles of Aristotle's left hand. A cry of pain accompanied the sound of bones breaking.
"Try anything else and you're dead." The tone indicated the assassin was back. There would be no compromise. For the first time since finding himself standing over the dead body of Lieutenant Walford, Tyler felt in control. He knew what had to be done and how to do it.
He glanced across at Jess and recognised the same distress he'd seen the night the rapist died.
He regretted Jess having to again witness his actions. Why hadn't he taken Arthur's advice and chosen Kenni? He dismissed the thought. Aristotle was his real concern. He grabbed the Greek's broken hand and squeezed. Another scream erupted. "The sooner you talk, the sooner you'll get treatment." The prisoner's confidence was waning. And Tyler knew the prisoner's pain was intensifying.
Arthur guided Jess towards the passenger's side door. He then went to the driver's side, dragged out the dead driver and took his seat. Arthur closed the window between driver and passenger compartment. Neither he nor Jess saw Tyler crash the butt of his pistol into Aristotle's skull. He slid into unconsciousness. Tyler then applied restraints to the prisoner's hands and feet prior to placing a gag in the mouth. He'd neither talk nor walk.
Arthur drove. Stage one, the abduction had been accomplished. Tyler now turned his thoughts to what lay ahead, the interrogation. Would the man break? Would he reveal the names he knew? Did they have enough time? And had Meredith been able to locate a site for the questioning?
The Senator's house was out. They couldn't afford witnesses. There would be no rules and only one objective. The getting of answers. Aristotle would tell them everything he knew. Or, he would die.
Tyler recognised the neighbourhood. Meredith stood outside the Senator's house. Jess jumped from the car the instant it halted. She was hysterical.
"I'll sort her out," said Meredith as she handed a phone and a note containing an address to Arthur. "It has everything you'll need. It's a new facility, you will love it. Keep me advised." A smile lined her face.
Tyler's initial thought was they had been given the wrong address. The building was old, large and externally appeared in need of urgent restoration. It had been a church. The stained glass windows had been vandalised and the front door bolted shut. Arthur took a look around. He found a side door; it provided access. Once inside his confidence soared. He returned to the now garaged Hummer and helped Tyler carry Aristotle from the car.
Once inside the obvious became apparent. It was no longer a house of the Lord. An inner brick wall lined and strengthened the original wall and a ten foot ceiling now ran the length of the building. The sanctuary had been converted to a hospital ward. A locked medicine cabinet sat beneath where a large crucifix had once hung. The sacristy had undergone the greatest change.
A staircase wound down to a below ground cellar. Tyler and Arthur studied the room and its 'features.' They now understood Meredith's smile.
They strapped Aristotle into his new chair and awaited his return to consciousness.
He woke up trussed up and naked, arms and legs secured to a chair, movement wasn't possible.
Where was he? Who were the kidnappers? Was this a grab for money? He doubted it. Had money been the motive they would have taken his wife or his daughter? This was political.
What time was it? How long had he been here? His hunger and thirst suggested it had been some time. He attempted to recall the detail. All thought vanished as four high pressure hoses exploded into activity. Ice cold water attacked with pinpoint accuracy. Twenty seconds later it stopped. A cycle had commenced. On, off, steaming hot, ice cold. It continued for several hours. Loud noises accompanied the spray, a child's terrified scream, a screech of brakes, rapid gunfire and lastly heavy metal music. Finally the room became a sauna, steam and heat poured from the roof. Dehydration left him distressed.
The door opened. Two men entered both carried buckets. The first man, tall and African American in appearance hurled the contents of his bucket at the prisoner. It contained what appeared to be freezing water. "Thought you might need some cooling." Skin irritation commenced immediately. "Maybe I should have added. I included some cleansing acid with the water."
"You're a dead man," screamed the prisoner.
"You my friend are in no position to make threats," said Tyler as he waved his covered bucket in front of the restrained man. "We know all about your activities and the deaths you've ordered, starting with mine. My name is Calin Roberts, I am the man Martin Paslow approached around six weeks ago with information of the existence of your treasonable activities. I believe I became your first victim, but somehow I survived. I've been authorised to offer you survival if you agree to co-operate."
"Go to hell."
Tyler's retaliation was immediate. He removed the bucket's cover and then upended it over Aristotle. The smell was overpowering, it was untreated human sewerage. "Shit for shit," said Arthur.
The two bucket carriers turned and left the room. Prior to leaving Tyler turned up the air-conditioning to tropical heat. He then opened a small cabinet that released a flood of blood starved mosquitos. They feasted on the naked and shit-perfumed skin of the restrained prisoner.
Aristotle experienced the fear he'd last suffered as a fourteen year old youth. Athens, in the mid-sixties wasn't a good place for street kids. Chances of survival had been less than remote but he'd beaten those odds. He'd seen his father beat his mother and he'd stood up to the bastard. He found a solid piece of timber and smashed it into his father's knee. His mother would be safe for months. He though became an orphan. The street became his home.
On his first day on the street he'd been approached by a group of Americans with questions about the city. He provided a commentary he made up on the spot. He guided them around the city. At the end of the day the tourists handed him a fifty dollar tip. He'd never seen so much money. At that moment he decided his future. In the short time he'd be a tour guide, in the long term he'd emmigrate to America.
He never forgot his mother but never saw her again. The next time he saw his father, he killed him. He left Greece the next day.
By bob cullen
Fraser Paull strolled among the crowd. He had arrived early, taken a look around the Monument prior to taking up a central position on the steps. He wasn't sure what to expect or who he would meet. He was certain it wouldn't be Kenni. She was a wanted criminal. Did that make him an accessory after the fact?
Had her claims been exaggerated? Or was it perhaps a justification for her recent behaviour?
Could she be trusted? That thought prompted instant guilt. Kenni was the most honest cop he'd ever come across. To his knowledge she had never verballed a prisoner or fabricated evidence under cross-examination. She was thorough, dedicated and by-the-book. Most importantly, she was a friend. One who would never deny him were he in trouble.
He recalled her words. 'This could well bring down the President.' What the hell had she stumbled upon? Once again Fraser's eyes sought out the messenger. It could be anyone. He wasn't seeking a needle in a haystack. It was more a case of finding a single hundred and thousand in a truck load of hundreds and thousands. They all looked the same.
The clock had passed midday. Had the rendezvous been cancelled? Had something happened to Kenni? How long should he wait? A tap on his shoulder from behind halted all thought. He turned around to see a police officer.
"We've been watching you for some time, sir." Fraser found the policeman's attitude abrupt but understandable. Washington police officers were, by their very location under intense pressures. "And we tend to become suspicious when someone remains in the same position for too long." Fraser produced his ID.
"Welcome to Washington, Detective Paull. And on behalf of all of us, I offer our sincere sympathies for Gerard. I just hope these," said Daniel on passing across the sleeve containing the now discoloured fingers. "Will help us identify both the killer and the bastard who employed her.
"Have you any idea how long identification will take?" Daniel added.
"Don't know. In that regard I'm very much at the mercy of FBI protocol. Who knows what importance they'll place on my request? In all honesty it could take weeks."
"Can't you argue on the basis of evidence corruption? And on the emotional basis of being Gerard's father."
"That's where I'll start."
"What about DNA testing?"
"Let me get the prints first," said Fraser. "How do I contact you?" Daniel provided his father's cell number.
"And one word of advice, Fraser, where possible, use public phones. And keep your messages brief." Fraser Paull couldn't miss the urgency in the voice of the speaker. "Be careful, we're up against the most powerful and violent people in this country. They use death, like we use milk.
He couldn't sleep. Lights flashed repeatedly from dark to bright, the sound too alternated between loud and unbearably loud. In addition, the combination of skin irritation, mosquito bite and stench near drove him insane. His body had developed numbness through the lack of movement. Hunger didn't help, severe headaches pounded in his head. Thirst had eased, a tube, dangled from the ceiling, feed precious drops into his mouth.
"Time for a wash." The words erupted from hidden speakers, seconds before the hoses reactivated. The prisoner's rage rose to unprecedented levels. It had found a new target. Where were his body guards? Why hadn't he been rescued? Who were these kidnappers? Had a ransom been demanded?
"And now a spin dry." The chair, an adaption of NASA's rotating gravitational force testing device rose about three feet above the floor and began to rotate, accelerating faster and faster. After thirty seconds he blacked out.
When consciousness returned he was facing his captors, the same two as previously. The insects were gone: the room still carried the aroma of insect repellent.
"Ready to talk," said Tyler. Aristotle held silent. "Perhaps you'd like to see the evening news, we taped it for you." A giant screen dropped from the ceiling.
'There's still no news of missing billionaire Nicolas Papadopolos,' said the newsreader. Aristotle watched as his own image flashed onto the screen. 'The bodies of his chauffeur and bodyguard were located yesterday on the side of the road near his home. Forensic investigators found significant amounts of blood at the scene; none however belonged to the man known affectionately as Aristotle.' A photo of Kendall McKenzie replaced his own image on screen.
' In the absence of a ransom demand, the FBI have ruled out kidnapping. They have not however dismissed the rumours of internal bickering between Mr Papadopolos and his business partner and brother-in-law Kendall McKenzie.
'Mr McKenzie refused to speak on camera, he did however mention Nicolas had in recent days become secretive in his dealings to the point where he had mentioned staging his own disappearance.'
"Liar, the bastard is lying," screamed Aristotle.
The two visitors studied Aristotle for reaction. Hostility raged. Everything depended on the newsreader's next statement. The idea had been Arthur's, he likened it to the subtlety of a drop shot, it didn't carry the velocity of a down the line winner but it had the same consequence, another energy sapping point loss.
'Off camera, McKenzie assured that while the loss of his brother-in-law was devastating.......'
"Kendall's a good man to work for," Arthur interrupted. Both he and Tyler knew the value of a creditable lie. "He provided the 'dozers and the time you'd be on the road, and all at no charge. Mumbled something about you being the final link."
"I'll kill the bastard," the prisoner raged. His eyes carried the frenzied passion of a suicide bomber.
"Sadly my friend, you won't get the chance. Your days of killing are over. Me and Tyler though, we have no such limitations, for the right kind of payment we're available. We can deliver the revenge you can't. And let me assure you, we never miss our man."
"How much." Hatred was such a strong motivator. Betrayal was a desperate man's final resort.
"Won't cost you a cent," said Arthur, he was the negotiator. "We'll even allow you a face-to-face with him before he dies. Just give us the word."
"You're lying."
"There are two things we don't have to do, Nicolas," Tyler replied. It was, he sensed, time to launch a new line of attack. "We don't need to lie nor do we need to pander to your ego. We are going to discover the truth about you, your brother-in-law, McIntosh and all your friends.
"Might I suggest you take a look around, this is a brand new facility with all the latest equipment, some of which you've already experienced. The room in front of you, for example" Tyler pointed to where an altar had once stood, "contains both a laboratory and an extensive drug cabinet that houses the most powerful talk stimulants the world knows. You are going to tell us everything we need. Make no mistake about that."
"Fuck you." Arthur's response stunned both Tyler and the recipient, Aristotle. He delivered a karate kick to the ribcage. He felt the ribs shatter. An agonised scream erupted from Aristotle.
"That's for Gerard." Aristotle struggled to breathe.
The intensity of the interview provided more than just truth, it rekindled memory. For the second time in nearly two hours, Tyler pondered on past experiences. Guilt surrendered to reality. Each and every memory rekindled his self-belief. He was a killer, yes, but only in the call of country. At the conclusion of the interrogation, Tyler made a vow. If Jess would marry him, he'd walk away from this world forever.
An hour later, Tyler called Meredith. "We have all the information we need, and it's on film," said Tyler. "Can you arrange an ambulance, our friend requires a hospital."
"I'll arrange for medical staff to come to you," she answered. "In fact I will accompany them. I'd think we'll be there within a half hour. Can you keep him alive that long?"
"Yes."
"Fraser has delivered too," Meredith added. "And maybe you should pass this on to Nicolas. Interpol identified the fingerprints as belonging to a Clardia Karvin, a resident of Athens and it's believed, the current mistress to Aristotle. You might like to inform him, the rocket attack he had launched on the Landcruiser killed Karvin.
By bob cullen
Armed with the film, Meredith called the Director of the FBI.
"Director Sabastian; it's Meredith Paslow. We need to talk."
"Meredith, due to your present circumstances, I'm afraid that's impossible."
"Steven," Meredith was one of the very few allowed to address the FBI Director by his Christian name. "May I suggest you reconsider. The evidence I now have in my possession not only vindicates every accusation directed at me these past few weeks but it also provides absolute proof of what is the greatest conspiracy this country has ever encountered. It will, I promise you, provoke the resignations, and probable arrests of up to six or seven of the most powerful people in Washington.
"All I seek is fifteen minutes of your time. If at the completion of that quarter hour I've not convinced you of my innocence and of the guilt of the appropriate parties I will surrender to your authority."
"Are you alone, Meredith?"
"No. I will be escorted by one of my agents; a man known as Calin Roberts. His real name is Tyler Spellman. We will be unarmed and are prepared to be handcuffed and strip searched by your security staff.
"Steven, I plead with you to at least listen to my claims."
"Come alone."
"I can't do that. Tyler is part of the proof."
"My terms, or not at all, Meredith," said Director Sabastian.
The Director's response stunned her. She was angry. Not only was she owed professional courtesy, she thought their long term friendship warranted a better reply. Then she remembered the article she'd read recently. In the interest of maintaining judicial prudence, all calls, even personal calls to the Director had to be recorded. She hoped that was the case. Time would tell.
Forty minutes later, pessimism had overtaken optimism. There'd been no call. Her phone chimed. She didn't recognise the number. Her response was short and direct. "Yes."
"Director Paslow." She didn't know the voice, it was feminine and young she guessed. "I'm calling for Steven." Meredith experienced relief, he hadn't denied her call.
"Sorry for being so rude."
"He asked me to apologise to you."
"I understand. I forgot all calls are now recorded."
"He wants to meet with you."
"With Tyler?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Where and when?"
"Here, and whenever you're ready."
"We're on our way. Could you please arrange for Steven to meet with us in the foyer? We'll be there in precisely twelve minutes."
The elderly lady approached the enquiry desk. A cripple, struggling on crutches stood several paces behind her. Their entry had activated no warning alarm. The foyer was crowded.
"Uncle Steven," called the cripple on seeing the Director exit the elevator. A dozen agents sprinted across the foyer. Six surrounded the Director while the other six encircled the man on crutches. The woman at the counter ran to her son's aid.
"It's all right said the Director. They're my guests." He headed back towards the lift. Six of the agents jammed in beside the relatives of the Director. They escorted the guests back into the Director's office.
"Gentlemen," said Director Sabastian to his escorts. "I don't know whether to commend you for your response or to castigate you for allowing two of the nation's most wanted criminals into my office.
"For now though, I must swear you to absolute secrecy. You are not to comment on the vision you're about to see. You will however all be called upon to give evidence in regards to this revelation. So watch closely.
"I suppose I should introduce my guests," he said with a huge smile on his face. "Firstly though, I'd ask if any of you would care to suggest who they might be." Silence reigned.
"Would you like to disrobe?" Meredith dropped her outer garment. "Meredith Paslow," he announced. "And Calin Roberts.
"Meredith has a disc she'd like us all to see." Steven slotted it into a hard drive as a screen dropped from the ceiling. "Would you like to preface the film with a few words, Meredith?"
"Thank you, Steven." She wasn't sure where to start. How much time did she have? She had only requested fifteen minutes. How did one condense seven weeks into fifteen minutes? "What you are about to see is the culmination of seven weeks of near impossible survival but it shows only the confession that occurred in the final few moments of the operation. Allow me to stress the obvious, the way this confession was extracted renders it illegal in the eyes of the law and that is why those whose guilt is highlighted on this film will never go to court. They will however be punished in such a way they'll never reoffend. You however don't need to concern yourself with those matters.
"So if I may, I'd like to allow my colleague, Calin to outline the story from the beginning."
Calin stood to attention. He spoke without emotion.
"Until this morning I had no recollection of what has occurred these past two months. But this morning during a discussion with the man you'll see on screen, I rediscovered how and why that had been deleted from my memory." He had an attentive audience of eight.
The phone rang. Steven answered. On hearing the caller's identity he placed his hand over the mouthpiece. "It's McKenzie." He selected the speakerphone button. All in the room were now privy to the incoming conversation.
Meredith had mentioned McKenzie's name, and his role in the conspiracy, on the ride up in the elevator.
"I was hoping we might be able to have a discreet conversation," said the caller.
"I must advise you, Kendall, all incoming calls to the FBI are now recorded, so discretion can't always be guaranteed. What can I do for you?"
"It concerns Nocolas, I fear he may have committed suicide." Looks of scepticism lined the faces of Meredith and Calin.
"What brings you to that conclusion?"
"I've just found a confession on his computer," said McKenzie. All in the room listened with intent interest.
"Two questions, Kendall." Steven maintained a courtesy in his tone. "Firstly, who had access to the computer? And secondly, can you bring the computer into headquarters or can we arrange someone to collect it this afternoon? And maybe that would be easier."
Tyler quickly scribbled a note. 'Ask him about the type of gun Nicolas carried?'
"One last question, Kendall, what sort of gun did Nicolas carry?" The man was stumped for an answer. "I'll get someone out there within the hour, Kendall. And thanks for the advice. If I was in your position, I'd try and keep a lid on this suspicion. And I assure you I'll do likewise and when I get any information from our IT people I'll pass it on. Sorry Kendall, but I'm in a meeting. I'll call you later.
"What do you make of that?" asked Steven.
"I believe it's called covering one's arse," said Meredith. "Let's leave that for the time being and get back to what Calin was saying."
"For me, this business commenced around twelve weeks ago. I was approached by Senator Martin Paslow, Meredith's father. He asked me to undertake an investigation into a whisper he'd heard. So I did as he asked. I didn't get very far. The next five or so weeks are a complete blur, I've since learned I was then subjected to a Guantanamo Bay-like interrogation that resulted in total memory loss. Around the same time, Meredith's father was found unconscious and he never recovered.
"So the two people who knew of the supposed allegations were out of the way. Then a spate of killings commenced. There were two Generals, Marvin Trent and William Thomas, a Commander Rodwell and his wife and a young soldier named Walford. Most of these soldiers can now be linked. As can the deaths of Senator McIntosh and Assistant Director Parnell.
"We now believe the murders of General Thomas, Commander Rodwell's wife, Senator McIntosh and Assistant Director Parnell were all committed by the same person, a person now deceased and identified as the lover of Aristotle.
"None of this was provable prior to the interview you're about to see." The screen came to life.
Aristotle's condition wasn't pretty. His face was battered and pale, his breathing distressed and his voice strained. He was naked with a large red abrasion below his left nipple.
"What do you want from me?"
"The truth."
"I've told you the truth."
"You've played games, Nicky. And the games are now over," said Tyler. "Get me the needle, Arthur." The former tennis player headed to where the altar once was. He returned with a fistful of needles in one hand and a cat in the other.
"We've got a couple of choices here, I'm not sure which is which," said Arthur. "Maybe I should test it on the cat first." He injected a needle into the cat. It collapsed. He was enjoying the game. "Ooops, wrong one."
"That leaves five." The cat on the floor convulsed. The prisoner's panic intensified.
Arthur stabbed a needle into Aristotle's arm. He inserted the serum then pulled the needle free. He looked at the label and said. "Hepititus C, shit that's the wrong one, isn't it?"
Aristotle lost consciousness. He didn't see the cat get back to its feet.
Tyler waited, the eyes of Aristotle opened. They were glassy in appearance; much like the drunk's who'd over imbibed.
"Is the President aware of your true intentions?"
"No, he's just our puppet." The speech was slow.
"If anything was to happen to you, who would assume leadership?"
"Kendall."
"Do you trust him?"
"No, the man is a fool."
"What is the ultimate aim?"
"Control of the military." All watching froze at the words. How close was he to achieving that goal?
"Wouldn't controlling the President be a better option?"
"We already have that."
The questioning continued for thirteen minutes. He named two more generals, eight Senators, three billionaires, six employees of Meredith and thirty two other people of prominence. Fifty three people all told. The film ended. No one spoke. Heads shook in disbelief.
Sabastian stared at the list in absolute horror. He made four phone calls, to the Vice President, to his assistant, to the Director of the CIA and to the Attorney General. A meeting was convened. Tyler and Meredith were ordered to attend.
*
| Author Notes | This is a little long. It is the second last instalment. The story concludes tomorrow |
By bob cullen
"It must be swift, it's timing exact and without one instance of advance knowledge," said the Vice President as he addressed the assembly. The original number of six attendees had swollen to ten, the Vice President had insisted on the Speaker of the house along with three other long serving Congressmen.
Members of the FBI were briefed forty minutes prior to the actual arrest times.
Within a matter of seven seconds fifty three residential doors opened across the country. Each door opener was pushed aside as a warrant was thrust into their hands along with a demand for the location of the wanted person. Inside two minutes, forty six people were taken into custody. Seven had escaped. Kendall McKenzie was one of the seven.
At 10.00 am on the following morning the Vice President addressed the Nation.
"It is my unpleasant duty to inform you, my fellow Americans, of the resignation of President William Saxton. As our Constitution instructs, I, in my elected role as Vice President now assume the responsibilities of President.
"Prior to announcing his resignation last evening, President Saxton convened an emergency session of Congress during which he outlined the gravity of the circumstances necessitating the unprecedented action he then outlined. Allow me to now replay part of President Saxton's address." A large screen at the side of the lectern came to life. The about-to-resign President appeared distressed.
"Never in the history of this Nation, not even in the horrific midst of the Civil War that saw this country almost self-destruct from within, have we confronted a more destructive enemy that the one we now confront. And like the Civil War, this enemy is also a brother American.
"I am not exaggerating when I say this country is, or perhaps more accurately was, two bullets from military takeover. And it would have been a constitutionally approved takeover. And I, as your President am solely responsible for this dire circumstance.
"I stand before you in disgrace. In my desire to attain this office, I sold my soul. I entered into unwise agreements with colleagues I saw as friends. To ensure their support I promised positions of influence. I offered guarantees without questions. I believed as President I would be in control. I was a fool.
"I have failed in my duty to you, my fellow Americans." President Saxton paused. Emotion had gotten the better of him. Tears could be seen. After a brief pause he composed himself and continued.
The clock behind her showed midnight was approaching. "Tonight, Vice President Knowles, a man with far greater integrity than any person I've ever known, sought an urgent meeting. He was accompanied by both the CIA and FBI Directors and the Attorney General. They presented evidence highlighting the existence of a major conspiracy involving more than fifty highly credentialed military and political persons.
"They told of the actions they had already initiated. A large number of arrest warrants were issued. Among those arrested were members of my inner cabinet. All involved have tendered resignations effective immediately. Due to legal implications I'm unable to name individuals. Those details will be revealed at the appropriate time. Suffice to say a number of replacements were approved during the emergency meeting of Congress.
"A moment ago I stated this country was in fact two bullets from military takeover. Allow me to expand on that detail. Our Constitution lists a roster for Presidential and Vice Presidential succession in the event of death, incapacity or resignation of either or both the President and Vice President. The successors, in sequence to fulfil a required vacancy are firstly, Speaker of the House and secondly, the President pro tempore of the Senate." The large screen went blank. The room held silent.
Vice President Knowles hesitated, the prolonged quiet emphasised the shock. "The President hadn't finished," said Knowles. "However an audio failure disrupted his final comment." In truth President Saxton broke down. "So allow me to read a transcript of that conclusion.
"As of this evening, the two occupants of those positions, both retired high-ranking members of the US Military, have, on my direct orders been dismissed. The two men are presently undergoing questioning at FBI Headquarters.
"In this past hour Congress has approved the new appointments for both positions. Senator Adrianna Tollerson, a woman of immense talent has accepted the role of speaker. The announcement of the President pro tempore of the Senate will be announced in the morning by President Knowles. End of quote." Cheering once more filled the room.
"In that capacity, Senator Adrianna Tollerson, will now become America's Vice President. Vice President Tolerson I now invite you to come stand by my side." Another burst of applause greeted the appearance of the Nation's first woman Vice President as she entered from side stage. They embraced with fondness.
Once more President elect Knowles spoke.
"The full details of what has occurred today will be revealed in coming days, suffice to say, this country has averted a catastrophe that would have had implications around the globe. While I cannot at this time go into detail, I can say this. Arrest warrants were last night served on forty six of our most distinguished citizens. Seven more people are being sought.
"I stress this point most emphatically, President Saxton was not among those arrested nor is he guilty of any wrongdoing. He did however surround himself with advisors who are presently under investigation. In this regard, President Saxton believes he failed both the people of this country and the country itself.
"The nomination of Senator Tollerson as Speaker of the House came from President Saxton himself. To me that is endorsement enough. In a rare show of unity the nomination was supported from both sides of the House."
"Now, if I may, I feel I should pay homage to my predecessor and I pray history will judge President Saxton not on the circumstances of today but rather on his commitment to his country. President Saxton is a man of courage. He could so easily have apportioned blame to where it truly lay. But no, he accepted sole responsibility for the errors made. He said he sold his soul. Believe me, nominees rarely negotiate, these arrangements are conducted by the campaign managers. He never sold his soul. That transaction was undertaken by those well experienced in dealing with the devil.
"President Saxton is no different from any person in office. He had ambition, a dream to succeed and a desire to bring about a better way of life for all. In my eyes that makes him a hero, a hero I proudly salute.
"President Saxton, it was my privilege to accompany you in your Presidency, my honour to serve as your Vice President and my duty to defend you in your time of need." Vice President Tollerson led the ovation.
President Knowles fronted another press conference. "Four weeks ago I promised an update on the events of a month ago. Sadly I can't deliver on that commitment. The matter as you know is still before the courts. Instead I'll provide another snippet of White House gossip.
"As you're all aware, the nominations for next year's elections are to be announced shortly. Allow me to give you a scoop." Every journalist in attendance had their pen poised. "I can confirm today the rumour that has been doing the rounds recently, Vice President Tollerson will not, and I repeat, not be standing as my Vice President next November." Astonished looks greeted the statement. Disappointment was obvious. Adrianna's performance as Vice President had won world wide accolades.
"She will however be running for President and she has asked me to fulfil the VP's role. That however is the minor news. Adrianna has also advised of her intention to marry. I must confess I'm amazed she kept her romance from everyone." The same question emerged from everyone's lips.
"Do we know who the lucky man is?"
"Me." He turned and strode from the interview.
*
Tyler and Jess retired to his farm, married and raised a family.
Arthur returned to tennis, a shadow of his former greatness. His first match produced an epic three hour battle against a truck driver. Exhaustion was the winner, they settled for eight all in the deciding set.
Kenni transferred from the police force to Meredith's department. Her first assignment saw her tasked with the duty to hunt down Kendall McKenzie. She located him in Greece, found him and left him to die in shark infested waters.
She then found Arthur, again retired from tennis and became a manufacturer, a producer of little Ashe's. They had two sons and a daughter.
| Author Notes |
The story concludes.
Thank you to everyone who offered comment and suggestion. Your input is greatly appreciated. |
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