Capture (Butch Karp Thrillers) (23 page)

Stepping forward in the direction his enemy had gone, Kane shouted, “Grale! Do you know who this is? It’s your old friend, Kane!…Come, show yourself and let’s finish this!”

There was no answer. Kane looked at Lucy and shrugged. “I guess love and lust have their limits. Apparently, you’re not worth fighting to the death over.”

Lucy kept her eyes on the ground and didn’t reply, so Kane turned to Treacher and pointed his knife at him. “Time for you to join your friends.”

“‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,’”
Treacher shouted, a meaty finger pointed skyward.
“‘He makes me lie down in green pastures, He leads me beside still waters…’”

“Oh, shut up,” Kane said. “I’m not going to kill you myself, unless you continue to irritate me…. No, I think I’m going to leave your fate to your pal Grale. I hear he’s sworn a particularly nasty one for you. Now start walking, and give my regards to David. Tell him I hope we get the chance to meet again soon.”

Fear leaped into Treacher’s eyes. He dropped to his knees. “No, please,” he begged. “I did what I said I would do and more. I gave you Lucy back! You can keep the rest of the money, I have enough. Please don’t make me face him!”

“I imagine that’s pretty scary,” Kane snickered. “But I can’t have traitors, even if they were my traitors, hanging around. Simply can’t be trusted, you know. Now go, or I will gut you and leave you for the Central Park rat packs to eat.”

Treacher looked at the knife and then out toward the dark. He sighed. “I should have known better. Good-bye, Lucy.”

Lucy looked up, hatred in her eyes. “Before he kills you, tell David that no matter what happens to me, I said to keep the faith and his time will come.”

Treacher nodded. “It’s the least I can do.” He then straightened his shoulders and began walking down the path, his arms out in the form of a cross.
“‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil…’”

“Christ but he’s annoying…” Kane muttered.

“‘…for you are with me; your rod and your staff they comfort me,’”
Treacher shouted as he approached the circle of light beneath a lamp.
“‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me…’”
He passed through the light and into the dark beyond.
“‘All the days of my life…’”

Suddenly, the preacher’s voice stopped. Lucy, Kane, and his men continued to stare in the direction he had gone, wide-eyed and holding their breath as if waiting for a bubble to burst. Then a round object rolled from the dark into the light. A shaggy-haired head, blood shimmering on the full and grizzled beard.

Kane laughed and clapped his hands. “Well, I’ve done my civic duty and helped get a disgusting bum off the streets.” He gave the rope tied to Lucy a tug. “Come, my dear Lucy, or shall I refer to you as Christine; time to take you to our lair. We’ve lots to do over the next week or so and need to get our beauty rest.”

Lucy followed meekly, glancing up only once at the robed figure of a woman weeping in the shadows as they passed.
He’s the only one…

V. T. N
EWBURY JOGGED THROUGH
C
ENTRAL
P
ARK, PRETENDING
not to have noticed the male and female joggers who’d been following him since leaving his Fifth Avenue office. He’d actually become quite good at picking out the tails assigned to his noon running routine. He assumed they were in the employ of his uncle, Dean, who apparently still didn’t quite trust him.

First, there had been the young partner at the firm who just happened to bump into him wearing a tracksuit, as V.T. was about to head out one day, and the man suggested they run together. This was right after the attack on the New York Stock Exchange and his uncle was obviously keeping tabs on him. They jogged together that day but later V.T. told the man that he enjoyed the “alone time” and preferred to run by himself.

His uncle switched strategies and began keeping an eye on him from afar. Whoever he used for such things was smart enough to change it up; sometimes his pursuer was a man, a woman, a pair, and once even an extremely fit “young mother” pushing a state-of-the-art jogging stroller. But V.T. had suspected he’d be followed and made a game out of spotting them.

He never went on the same run two days in a row, so his uncle couldn’t post spies along the route. That meant sending runners
who could keep up with him, which made them easier to spot. V.T. had been an Ivy League rowing champ in his college days and prided himself on staying fit and trim. He ran at a good clip, and once he realized he was being followed, he amused himself by choosing odd routes and difficult paths, and then watching his pursuers try to keep up without exposing themselves.

Once, he’d sprinted around a corner and then doubled back, almost running into the woman with the jogging stroller. He got a good peek at the bundled doll being used as a prop, but pretended not to notice and apologized profusely to the flustered woman. “So very sorry. I took a wrong turn.”

Still, he’d tried not to let on that he was aware of being followed. He wanted his uncle Dean to learn to trust him through benign reports from the spies. It was easy enough to shake pursuers when he needed to without making it obvious, such as the time he’d gone with Jaxon to see Karp. But most of what he did wasn’t worth hiding or reporting as he went about the role of enjoying life as a wealthy, middle-aged partner in a prestigious law firm, and someone who was growing interested in his uncle’s politics.

He and Dean had been spending many evenings together, talking over Cohiba cigars and snifters awash in Rémy Martin cognac about the family history, and its part in an intrepid band of “entrepreneurs,…perhaps a smuggler or two among them, ha-ha,” from the Isle of Man who came to the young United States to make their fortune. The history lessons inevitably led to a discussion about the deteriorating state of the country and the world, and the need for “men of vision” to step up to the plate.

V.T. found it surprisingly easy to sound as if he was philosophically not that far removed from his uncle. He believed that it was true that the U.S. policy on immigration was a mess, and the lack of any cohesive policy to deal with it was frustrating. U.S. foreign policy was ambiguous and timid; no wonder the Russians, Muslims, and Chinese did what they liked—such as in Ossetia—and thumbed their noses at the U.S. nonresponse. No one could deny that the economy was in shambles, and yet the politicians seemed incapable of anything more than partisan bickering over who was at fault. And terrorists were most certainly at the doorstep, and
yet U.S. leadership lacked the resolve to hunt them down and kill them in their lairs.

It was a shock for V.T. to realize that there were only a few degrees of separation between his uncle’s philosophy and what he thought of as his liberal New England sensibilities. But at least he knew the counterarguments, though he kept them to himself. He suspected that these “shades of gray” were the general public perception that the Sons of Man would be counting on when they made their move for power. All they’d have to do would be to nudge the population a few steps toward “temporary emergency suspension” of constitutional protections and it would not be that far of a reach to totalitarianism.

Or to scapegoat one ethnicity,
V.T. thought as he pounded down a path.
Or look the other way when thugs start breaking windows and murdering dissidents in their beds, and shipping people off to “relocation camps” in the country.

Despite the spies who followed him, V.T. had felt a growing trust from his uncle as they continued their discussions. He’d been introduced to a number of very powerful men—politicians, military officers, and business executives—at the law firm and at dinner parties hosted by his uncle. He suspected that some, if not all, were connected to the Sons of Man, and watched what he said and did around them, aware that he was being judged.

Once, deep in his cups from the cognac, Dean had blearily clapped him on the shoulder as they were leaving the office and confessed, “I hope you won’t take offense, but there are times when you are more like a son to me than my own Quillian.”

The comment made V.T.’s skin crawl. His cousin, Quillian, had spurned his family and eventual place on the SOM council. Instead, he’d enlisted in the U.S. Marines and had been killed in Vietnam.
A better man than his father.
But what really galled V.T. was having to hide his hatred for the man he knew had killed his father. But he couldn’t prove it—
yet
—so he’d plastered a smile on his face and clapped the old man back. “
Honored,
” he’d replied, all the time reminding himself that his goal was to help bring down the Sons of Man before they could accomplish their aims…
and charge this son of a bitch with my father’s murder
.

The role-playing appeared to be working, as the old man seemed to relax his guard somewhat, such as leaving the notepad with “Malovo” and “Makhachkala” written on it on his desk, which had nearly meant a just end for a vicious terrorist. Some small items and comments, however, he ignored in case the old man was trying to trap him. During his meeting a month earlier with Jaxon and Karp, they’d all agreed that the fewer contacts he had with either of them, the better, and that rather than reporting every detail, he should use his judgment and risk exposure only for things that seemed to warrant it.

Such an instance occurred after-hours one evening when he was about to enter his uncle’s office. He’d already told the old man that he was leaving but then remembered a case file he wanted to take home. As he was about to walk past Dean’s office to his own, he overheard the old man place a telephone call.

“Chief Warrant Officer Adkins, please,”
his uncle said.
“Yes, my name is Vi Quisling.”

Why the false name? And that one in particular?
V.T. wondered as he pulled a pen—actually a combination pen and recording device—from his pocket and clicked it.

There was a pause and then his uncle spoke again.
“Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh.”
It was the Sons of Man motto spoken in Manx. What must be, will be. Apparently, the reply was satisfactory because the old man went on.
“The package is on the way…. No, there’s been a change…five days later. Make it happen or forget the money.”

The old man hung up. After a slight pause, V.T. walked into the office, causing his uncle to start and scowl.
“Jesus Christ, Vinson, I thought everyone was gone! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Sorry about that, old chap,”
V.T. answered, and then shook his head and chuckled.
“Still at it when all the other partners and junior partners, as well as the rank and file, have gone home. Your energy and work ethic never cease to amaze me.”

The old man’s scowl turned to a pleased smile at the compliment.
“You don’t necessarily have to be smarter than the rest if you outwork them, I always say. Of course, it helps to be smarter and outwork the rubes. But yes…I had something I needed to tidy up
…a large pension settlement for one of these investment banks that went under after that terrorist attack in September.”

V.T. had used his judgment. His uncle had obviously lied about the “pension settlement” and had been talking in code to someone with a military rank. Chief warrant officer named Adkins. A mysterious package was arriving five days later. And then there was the name his uncle mentioned right before he hung up. Ivan or Iben—it was hard to tell on the tape—Jew-bare.

Using a false name had been the real kicker. At first “Vi Quisling” had seemed an odd choice. Vidkun Quisling was a Norwegian army officer and politician who had founded the Nasjonal Samling, a fascist party, and on the eve of the German invasion in 1940 he had declared himself prime minister and aligned with Adolf Hitler.

For most Norwegians, he was a traitor who not only seized power in a coup but participated in the capitulation of their country to the Nazis, the deportation of Norwegian Jews to concentration camps, and the execution of Norwegian patriots. He was arrested near the end of the war and executed for high treason. But to a member of the Sons of Man, V.T. assumed, he would be a hero—“a man of vision,” as his uncle liked to say, who was willing to seize the reins when the moment was right, and knew how to deal with
problems,
like the Jews.

Although V.T. wondered at the wisdom of using an alias with such obvious connections, he knew it fit with the old man’s twisted sense of humor and feeling of invincibility. However, the riddles were beyond him, so he decided that it was important enough to contact Karp and Jaxon and let them piece it together.

The last time they met, they worked out a plan on how to let Karp know he wanted to relay information. If he wanted to talk in person, V.T. would request that a clerk in the records division for the criminal courts pull a file on one of the cases he’d been working on when he left the DAO. If he just wanted to pass information, such as a recording, then a different case file would be pulled. This particular clerk had been told to contact Karp’s office immediately if a request came through for them.

Which was why V.T. was now passing Cleopatra’s Needle on his run through Central Park. He glanced over at a grassy space on the far side of the obelisk and saw that NYPD detectives were still on the scene. The news that morning had carried a story about a shooting in the park the night before. Apparently there had been one fatality—
which explains the body lying under a tarp surrounded by yellow crime scene tape
—and possibly more.
“There was a lot of blood,”
a spokesman for the NYPD had told the television stations.
“We believe it may be gang related.”

A few minutes later, V.T. pulled up at a bench near the
Alice in Wonderland
statue. The bench was occupied only by an old black derelict who sat snoring in the sun, apparently sleeping off the contents of the Old Grand-dad whiskey bottle in the brown bag at his feet. The man was dressed in several layers of old coats and pairs of pants and smelled like he preferred not to bathe. The young mothers with children and tourists visiting the famous statue avoided the bench.

V.T. put his foot up on the bench and leaned over to tie a shoe that was not untied. As he did, the MP3 music player in his jogging shirt pocket slipped out and bounced off the bench into a pile of leaves and other debris behind it.

“Damn,” he said, and fished in the refuse until he found the device. He stood up and plugged it back into his earphone jack and replaced it in his shirt pocket. Glancing around and smiling as he watched children climb the toadstools, he noted his pursuers trying to catch their breath while keeping an eye on him.

Let’s see how much more you have in the tank,
he thought with a smile, and started off in the direction of Central Park West at a run. He patted the MP3.
Nice touch, Clay! A little John Coltrane for the finish line.

After V.T. left, the old bum yawned and then lay down on his stomach to continue his nap. He stayed in the same position without moving for thirty minutes until he decided enough time had passed, then reached into the debris and closed his hand around V.T.’s MP3 player.

I know you appreciate good jazz, V.T.,
Detective Clay Fulton thought as he sat up, slipping the device into one of the filthy coats.
He stood and shuffled off to the men’s restroom at the Conservatory Water pond, where he entered a stall and removed the filthy outer garments and placed the MP3 in his suit-coat pocket.

Stuffing the rags into a trash can, Fulton emerged from the men’s room and looked around. As he walked east, he pulled a small radio from his pants pocket. “Neary.”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Pick me up, and by the way if I see a hot-dog vendor, you interested?”

“Yeah, the guy at Seventy-fifth and Third has the best brats in the city, bar none. Make mine with the works. And just in case I never said this before, you’re a swell guy, Clay, a real swell guy.”

“Neary?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Shut up.”