Authors: Chuck Barrett
When Regan and Connors had reached the summit at Zugspitze, she'd reported finding the man's body. The authorities took her statement and dispatched a crew to recover the body from the ice. The couple’s itinerary took them from Garmisch, Germany to Venice, Italy the next day, which suited Regan. She wanted to get as far away from the German mountain as possible in case someone raised concern over the body found frozen in the glacier. The last thing she wanted was to be called back and interrogated…or worse, have her belongings searched. There was no plausible explanation for her possession of the book and it would have been obvious where she found it. The German authorities would take it back and her troubles would just be starting.
The two days spent in Italy on pins and needles, wondering if she would be found out, were unnerving. She kept expecting authorities to discover the identity of the frozen man, come after her, and search her luggage for any missing artifacts. She searched the newspapers every day and found it odd that she never saw any news reports about the body she discovered.
The flight back to the United States was long but the exhilaration and mystery behind the book deprived her of sleep. All she could think about was the leather bound book and what might be written in it. The notion the book didn't contain any secrets never crossed her mind. Even more intriguing was what she found after she had a chance to examine it.
After she had returned to her room in Garmisch and unpacked the book, she'd noticed a hole in it, small but large enough to slip her finger through. Under the table lamp she noticed a discoloration resembling blood stains on the leather binder. Perhaps it was her imagination gone wild, but after closer inspection she deduced it could have been made from a bullet and that piqued her interest. The thought of opening the book and discovering its secrets caused her heart to race with curious anticipation.
She located the sweater that concealed the book and carefully unwrapped it. Moisture had coated the inside of the sealed plastic bag containing the book. She assumed the restorative drying process would have to be slow and tedious and she wanted to make sure she didn’t damage the book so she decided not to open the sealed bag until she consulted an expert in document restoration. For added protection, she sealed it inside another bag and then the second bag inside a third. Overkill perhaps, but she didn't care.
Even though she was exhausted from traveling, the curiosity of her new found treasure fueled her. Her Internet searches for document restorers failed to provide any results near the Charleston area. She decided she’d call the university library to find an expert and then make up a story to get the information she needed.
While her mind wandered through the intricate details of her scheme, her fingers caressed the book through the plastic bags, feeling every detail. Her middle finger found the hole on the front. She held it in front of the light and saw the filtered glow through the hole in the journal.
“What is in here that is so important?” She whispered out loud. “And did someone have to die to protect it?”
S
enator Richard Boden
was among the most prestigious of the nation's politicians. In addition to his war record, Boden was a founding member of the Inner Circle of the United States Senate. Known as
the yachtsmen,
although most members didn't even own a yacht, this Inner Circle had wrestled power from a handful of senior senators and changed the way the Senate chose committee chairmanships. In true Orwellian style, the Inner Circle believed not all 100 senators were created equal. They alone held the power. Aspiring new senators were molded—or destroyed—by these Inner Circle members.
Wiley wanted to make the senator's demise look like natural causes…and that's what Jake resolved to do.
Four computer monitors surrounded Jake and Francesca, each containing mission sensitive data about Boden, his residence, and his security system. The two had been sitting at the conference table next to the RF lab at METech for the past four and half hours without a break and had made very little progress determining how to handle suspicion from Boden's fellow Inner Circle members. The aging senator was part of the
good ol boy
system and had strong allies in Washington. They would insist on an investigation and an autopsy.
Jake stood, yawned, stretched his arms as far as he could, and said, "We're getting nowhere. I'm going to make a head run and get a soft drink. Want something?"
"Dr. Pepper would be nice. I could use the caffeine." Francesca covered her mouth while she yawned.
Jake smiled, yawns always seemed contagious, he thought. "You got it." He and Francesca had been paired on missions more times than they'd been on solo missions over the past year. With the exception of the scar on her left cheek, Francesca was a woman of flawless beauty. As a matter of fact, he felt the imperfection added to her Italian mystique. Working as a team had nurtured their friendship and added confidence in each other's abilities. Their strengths and weaknesses created the perfect balance and their skills complimented each other.
Wiley had created the perfect union.
He trusted her with his life, and he knew she reciprocated. He supposed that was why Wiley kept them paired. The old man was a matchmaker in the world of espionage. Their vows were simple—
From this day forward, I got your back.
Jake turned toward the door as it opened. Kyli walked in with a smile on her face holding a pack of gum and a clipboard.
"Piece of cake." She handed the pack of gum to Francesca. "You're all set."
"That was fast." Francesca took the pack of gum from Kyli and placed it on the conference table.
"Should I ask how?" Jake asked.
"How…what?" Kyli asked. "How I finished in such a short amount of time or how the gum works?"
"Yes," Jake said.
"Start with how you finished so fast," Francesca said.
Kyli pointed to one of the computer monitors. "I know him. Isn't that the senator who—"
"You didn't see that." Jake leaned over the table and minimized the windows on the monitors. "This one's from the top."
"That explains why this was so simple." Kyli pulled up the clipboard. "Your
target
has high blood pressure, has had a serious stroke and a major heart attack. He takes nitroglycerin tablets for chest pain. It also looks like he's had several mini-strokes as well, which I'm willing to bet he doesn't even know he's had. So," Kyli picked up the pack of gum, "this is your lethal weapon. It will have a double whammy effect. Within a few minutes of ingestion, he'll have severe chest pains mimicking a heart attack and will grab his nitroglycerin pills and take them. But this formula is already packed with nitro, so he'll overdose but won't know it. Within seconds after ingesting the nitro, the other ingredients will kick in and he'll have a massive stroke that will render him unconscious. Total time from gum to loss of consciousness, four to five minutes. Total time to death, seven to eight."
"Wow. That fast?" Jake asked.
"He's no health club member. More like a walking time-bomb." Kyli pointed to the papers scattered on the table. "What'd he do to deserve this?"
Neither Jake nor Francesca answered her question.
"I know. I know. You can't tell me. And if you did, you'd have to kill me. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah." Kyli frowned. "Heard it all before."
"Is it traceable?" Francesca asked.
"Good question," Jake added. "Our target has some powerful friends who will no doubt want to know how he died. They will suspect foul play and will certainly request an autopsy. Will your formula show up?"
"Nope. All they'll find is nitro." Kyli checked her watch. "How much longer before you're done here? It's getting time to eat."
"Kyli, you'll have to eat without Jake tonight," said Francesca. "We still have some logistical issues to work out."
"She's right, we may be here quite a while," Jake said.
"Anything I can help with? Knock out the security system? Take out the guards? Blueprints for the house?" Kyli looked at Jake. "I was hoping we could spend a little time together before you leave."
"Blueprints and security system we've taken care of." Jake said. "His P. A. could be a problem. He always has her with him. Got an alchemy for that?"
"P. A.? As in personal assistant?"
"Yes."
"How old is she?" Kyli asked.
"Mid to late thirties," Francesca said.
"Know if she's had a hysterectomy?"
Francesca answered. "No, but I can get that information for you."
"That would be great. You know their schedule?"
Francesca grabbed a piece of paper from the table and handed to Kyli. "As a matter of fact, we do."
"Thanks, Franny." Kyli studied the schedule for two minutes and then smiled. "I might know just the thing."
T
hree hours later
, Jake and Francesca completed the planning phase of their mission. An analyst at Wiley's new Virginia office researched the medical history on Boden's P.A. and found no record of a hysterectomy. Kyli had been a big help and offered a solution to their problem with removing Boden's personal assistant from the equation.
"It is convenient that Boden's P.A. is a woman," Francesca said. "Kyli's solution should work like a charm."
After he heard the plan he thought the same thing. He knew he and Francesca could control the situation, avoid detection, and administer the compound to Senator Richard Boden. In theory, anyway. And that was the only thing bothering Jake at the moment. If the hit wasn't timed with precision, they might get busted. This was a personal favor for the President of the United States from Wiley. And on a personal level, a chance for Jake to seek revenge for past transgressions.
"I think that's it." Jake looked at Francesca who was already gathering all the paperwork in one pile. "We're a go for tomorrow night."
"I don't know, Jake. This mission still bothers me." Francesca looked at her watch. "When it appears easy, something has been overlooked."
Jake knew about Francesca's failed first mission, an attempt to capture an assassin that resulted in the loss of two of her team members, and that she'd been overly cautious ever since. He knew she was reminded of her failure every time she looked in the mirror and saw her scar. That demon in her past would never leave.
He knew about demons.
He had a few of his own.
"Relax. We've covered every angle and besides." Jake paused. "I've got your back."
T
he Hotel Carpinus
was a short drive from the lab, just across the canal to the small village of Herent. Jake had spent many nights there on his numerous trips to Belgium and was on a first name basis with most of the hotel and dining room staff.
Jake grabbed his room key from Jordy at the front desk. Same room as always, number 7. And, as was standard protocol for him at the Hotel Carpinus, he knew the light would be on, his bag would be in his room, bed turned down, and a chocolate on the pillow.
When he opened the door, he realized he was wrong.
The only light in the room came from several candles flickering on the dresser. His bag was tossed on the floor, clothes scattered all over. The bed was turned down, but instead of a chocolate on his pillow, it was something much more appetizing.
Kyli.
A
shley Regan was
an adrenaline junkie and her recent discovery kept her imagination stoked with possibilities. At first, her calls to the College of Charleston seemed a dead end but every junkie knows that persistence is the opposite of failure. She struck pay dirt with the third person she spoke to at the College. The librarian gave her the name of a local antiquary who not only collected antiquities, but also restored damaged documents in his home. The man had assisted several libraries and companies in Charleston with restoring documents and books water damaged as a result of Hurricane Hugo in 1989.
Regan took the man's name and number and made an appointment to bring the book for an evaluation and restoration estimate.
One step closer to her goal.
The contents of the book had become her idée fixe. She had to know what was written inside. Her mind thought of dozens of possibilities for a bullet hole to be in the leather-bound book.
She studied the book one last time…touching it through the plastic bags. She used a bright light and magnifying glass to study the water-stained leather cover. The leather-bound book measured roughly 6 inches wide by 8.25 inches tall and was a little over an inch thick. The leather appeared to be cowhide, possibly stained dark, with a pattern tooled on the front.
Two patterns actually, initials tooled near the top and a small emblem or pattern centered an inch from the bottom. The patterns were worn flat. With the discoloration of the leather, the patterns were impossible to decipher through the sealed plastic bags. Moisture had visibly collected on the inside of all three bags so she didn't dare remove the book.
She grabbed a blank sheet of copy paper and a pencil then smoothed the plastic bags as much as possible over the front cover. Placing the blank paper on the cover, she gently rubbed the pencil lead across the book. With each pass of the lead across the paper, the patterns from the leather cover slowly appeared. The initials revealed themselves a small portion at a time until they were clear—W. F. It meant nothing to her. But as the smaller pattern emerged that changed.
A crest.
With a swastika in the center.
Now the book had an approximate age dating back to World War II—Nazi Germany.
A valuable piece to the puzzle.
The region made sense. Technically she'd found the book on German soil. The identity of the man remained a mystery. Perhaps the protector of the book was a German soldier. Could explain the bullet hole, if that's even what it was. She knew the bloodstains, the hole, and the swastika might arouse suspicion and prompt some questions—questions she was preparing herself to answer. She'd already devised a story, now she just had to make some minor alterations and she had her perfect lie.
G
PS was
a wonderful invention she thought as she parked her car in front of Arthur DeLoach's three-story home in historic Charleston. It amazed her that with a compass and a map she could roam the wilderness and never get lost, but put her in the city and she'd get turned around almost every time. And to make matters worse, she'd grown up in Charleston. Now all she had to do was input the address and the electronic device guided her to his mailbox with voice commands. She grabbed her bag and walked to the doorstep. No doorbell to announce her arrival, only a brass knocker on the oversized wooden door. She reached for the knocker but before she could grab it the door opened. A middle-aged black woman stood in front of her, almost as if she had been waiting for her to arrive. Might have even been sizing her up as she walked to the front door.
"Hello. I'm Ashley Regan."
"Ms Regan, Mr. DeLoach is expecting you. May I take your bag, ma'am?"
"No, thank you. I'll keep it. It's carrying the item I brought for Mr. DeLoach."
The old house had a musty odor with twelve-foot ceilings, large oriental rugs in every room, and a long hallway extending from front to back in the center of the home. A stairway led upstairs in the middle of the main hallway. "How old is this house?" Regan asked.
"Over two hundred years. It was built in 1811." The woman explained. "Out back are the gardens and a carriage house. The carriage house was built in 1813."
Regan followed the woman down the long hallway to a closed door near the back of the home. Every inch of wall space, it seemed, was covered with paintings. Cabinets and display cases full of antiquities that appeared to have come from every corner of the world. Through the rear windows she could see the gardens full of assorted flowers, most in full bloom, and the old carriage house.
The woman knocked twice then opened the door and walked in.
"Mr. DeLoach, Ms. Regan is here to see you." The woman turned to her. "Go on in, honey, and talk loud, he's hard of hearing."
As Regan walked in, the woman closed the door behind her. The room was full of equipment some of it small, some not so small. She had no idea how any of it worked, nor did she really care. Next to a wall was a large table with different colored vials of what she assumed were chemicals, a large magnifying glass with a light mounted under the rim illuminating a book that lay across the center of the table, and standing at the table, an old man wearing jeweler's glasses and white gloves.
"Mr. DeLoach, I'm Ashley Regan. We spoke on the phone."
The old man held up his hand. "Shh. I'll be with you in a moment." He sounded angry and impatient. "Have a seat. And I'm not hard of hearing so you don't have to yell. Zula Mae tells everyone that so she can listen through the door."
She smiled at the thought of a nosy housekeeper, found a chair next to a window, and sat down.
Regan guessed Arthur DeLoach was in his seventies, perhaps as old as eighty. His gray hair was thin, long, and scraggly. His old hands showed signs of arthritis induced deformity but they seemed steady when he worked. His shoulders had a permanent hunch and he shuffled when he walked. She realized he wasn't angry or gruff, his voice just made him seem that way.
"So Ms Regan, what do you have for me?"
She was on. Time for the lies to begin.
"Mr. DeLoach, my Uncle William Franks, my mother's brother, died a couple of months ago, and since I was the only relative left, I was named executor of his estate. When I went to clean out his house I found this." She pulled out the book in the plastic bags. "It was frozen in the back of a freezer in his garage. Years of frost had accumulated on it. I know this sounds odd, but my uncle was an odd man. A bibliophile…his house is full of books. I don't know where I'm going to put all of them. As the frost melted, I suspected this might be his personal journal so I wrapped it up and put it back in my freezer until I could find someone to safely restore it. It has his initials on the binding and some sort of crest. Maybe a family crest, I don't know. My uncle grew up in Germany, Bavaria I think. Also there's a hole punched through it and some sort of stain…I don't know what happened to cause that."
There. Her story complete. Her lies told. She designed her story to cover all the bases and hopefully deflect any suspicion the old man might have.
"May I hold the book?" DeLoach held out his old arthritic hand.
She placed the book in his hand. He held it up to the light, pulled his jeweler's glasses down and studied the book.
"Why so many plastic bags?" He asked.
"I was afraid if it started to dry out, it might ruin it."
"I can dry it out with my vacuum drier, but I won't know the condition of the pages until I take a look to see how extensive the restoration will be…if I can restore it at all."
He raised the glasses and looked at her. His slate gray eyes looked worn and tired. He had dark circles, droopy cheeks and eyebrows a decade overdue for a trim.
"And how long do you think this will take?" She tried not to sound eager.
"If everything goes well, three or four days."
"And if it doesn't?" She asked.
"I only have one other project right now." He pointed to the book on the table. "So I can give this book a lot of attention. No more than a week, I'd say."
"And the cost?" Regan smiled.
"I'm old Ms Regan. I don't need the money. I do this because I enjoy it and want to stay busy. If I sat around here every day with my thumb up my ass, I'd probably die in a couple of months. Zula Mae…" DeLoach pointed to the door. "…Nosy woman but she takes good care of the house which leaves me time to do this. I'll only charge you what it costs me—basically chemicals, electricity, and supplies. To do this right, you're looking at around five or six hundred dollars, payable in cash,
before
you get the book back. Those are my terms and as you can probably guess, I'm quite inflexible. But rest assured, the restoration
will
be done properly."
"That sounds more than reasonable. Quite frankly, I expected to pay more." She smiled again at the old man. "I can't imagine why my uncle put this book in the freezer. He moved to the States in his twenties. I'm hoping it has my family history in it, which is something I'd like to know more about."
"I understand, Ms Regan." DeLoach paused.
"Please, call me Ashley." She tried to look calm. Had his suspicions already been raised? Was her story not convincing enough?
"Very well, Ashley, a word of caution. Family is important. Roots are important. But I have lived long enough to know that all families have secrets. Some with dark secrets. I hope your uncle's book does not alarm or disappoint you."
"My uncle was an eccentric old man. My parents thought he was crazy, but as a kid, I thought he was neat." She paused. "There's no telling what's in that book."
"As long as you're prepared."
"Nothing about my uncle or his life would surprise me." She shifted the subject back to the old man. "The librarian at the college told me you're an expert, how long have you been doing these types of restorations?"
"Over fifty years of document restoration and thirty years of genealogical studies."
"Genealogy?"
"Yes. I used to teach a course at the university," he paused, "until they decided I was too old."
"Nonsense. I can't believe they would waste your knowledge and experience."
DeLoach stared at Regan. "They wanted new blood. Someone younger, someone more in touch with the digital age, they said. I taught the old school methods of research in libraries and courthouses with a small amount of emphasis on the use of the Internet. They claimed they wanted it the other way around. I think they just wanted to pay a smaller salary."
DeLoach stood. "Call me in a couple of days and I'll give you a progress report."
DeLoach yelled. "Zula Mae, you can quit listening through the door now and show Ms Regan out, please?"
P
ointe-à-Pitre
, Guadeloupe
A
bigail Love stared
down at the four-foot gap between the East Tower and the West Tower of the condominium complex then gazed out across the few remaining lights in the sleepy Caribbean town. She tossed her nylon rope across the chasm to the roof of the West Tower, stood on the two-foot high ledge and held her breath. She was on the rooftop of the eight-story East Tower and she knew the fall would be nearly a hundred feet. She'd practiced this jump several times in her room. Now was the moment of truth. She bent her knees slightly, flexed her muscles and pushed off with all her strength.
Love's small framed cleared the two-foot ledge on the West Tower and as her feet touched the rooftop, she tucked and rolled and then sprang back to her feet. Just like she'd practiced.
She grabbed her nylon rope, secured it to a vent pipe, and walked to the edge of the roof. Two floors below was the Kingsley's unit.
It was funny how things worked out, she thought; she had been so worried about when she would get to case the Kingsley's condominium but Teresa Kingsley had innocently made it all possible.
Dinner with the Kingsleys the previous night went so well that Martin insisted she join them again tonight. Teresa seemed excited but Abigail Love saw through Martin Kingsley's motives. He wanted Teresa out of his hair and Abigail was the perfect solution.
Teresa and Love spent the day touring the island on scooters rented from a vendor down by the waterfront. The women stopped for lunch at an island grill on the west side of the island where the specialty was conch fritters. The grill was located adjacent to a clothing-optional beach where, after several drinks at the grill's bar, Abigail and Teresa removed their tunics and bathing suit tops and spent a few hours sunbathing next to the emerald Caribbean waters.
At 3:00, they returned to the Towers where they each had another drink poolside before to returning to their suites to get ready for dinner.
When Love met the couple downstairs, it was obvious that Teresa was still tipsy. She wore a red sundress with flat sandals and Martin was in long khaki pants and a loose fitting tropical print shirt.
During dinner Teresa complained to her tall olive-skinned husband that all he and his partner ever did was talk business. After dessert, Teresa decided she and Love would walk the few blocks back to the condominium and have another drink.
The town's streets were eerily deserted after dark and the entire district took on a seedy atmosphere. The ten-minute walk took nearly twenty minutes while Love half-walked, half-carried the drunken Teresa Kingsley through the narrow streets. After arriving at the complex, Teresa invited Love to her unit in the West Tower for a nightcap. This time she didn't refuse.
Love leaned over the roof and looked down at the Kingsley's balcony, twenty-five feet she guessed. She mused at how easy Teresa Kingsley made it for her. Using the video feed from the camera she planted earlier, Love waited a full hour after Martin turned out the bedroom light before she made her move.
Earlier in the evening, after another drink, Teresa passed out on the sofa. Love seized the opportunity to case the layout of the condominium, disable the lock on the balcony door, and plant a miniature camera. When she was finished, she helped Teresa from the sofa and walked her to her bed where the woman passed out again. Love removed Kingsley's sundress and slipped her beneath the sheets wearing only her black thong. Love draped the sundress over the back of a chair, scanned the floor plan one last time and let herself out, locking the door behind her.