Chapter 1

Chapter 1—Christmas morn on the bank

of the Chicago River

4:58 a.m., Sunday, December 25

Christmas morning—five a.m. The sun had not yet attempted to peek over Lake Michigan.
And it was snowing. While winter storms surprise no one in Chicago, this was a particularly frigid snow, driven by an incredibly stiff westerly—the sort generally reserved for late January or February.
The wind-fractured flakes jetted past Jack Handler more horizontal than vertical, then bounced along the concrete Riverwalk like miniature snowballs.
The inclement weather did not, however, present a problem to Jack. In fact, he embraced it. The fierce storm suggested he would have no company as he wound up this job.
“What could be better?” he thought.
Carrying an oversized and plastic-lined leather briefcase, he briskly made his way east along the north side of the Chicago River, less than a mile from Lake Michigan.
Just as he reached a pre-selected point along the water’s edge, he turned toward the river. Gripping a support post with his right hand, he swung the heavy case up and rested it on the railing. Then, with a single motion, he unlatched the case and dumped out of it a solid block of ice. Using his thumb, he retained a brown plastic bag that he had wrapped around the ice so that it would not stick to the case.
Once the bag had separated from the ice, he quickly gathered it up and tucked it back in the case.
The water was several feet below the walkway, so the heavy chunk made a loud splashing sound when it landed. Initially disappearing beneath the surface, the little iceberg bobbed up to the surface almost immediately. Only an inch or so showed above the water, but it was enough to reflect the snow-muted lights of the city as it began floating downstream.
Jack hesitated a moment, took a deep breath, snapped the large brown case closed, then resumed his walk eastward.
He had chosen this specific spot nearly a week earlier. In fact, he had barely checked into a nearby hotel when he took this exact trek along the river, searching out camera and light locations. He knew that while he could not totally avoid scrutiny, he did need to find the most appropriate place to discard the package—a point that would pose minimal threat from surveillance or excessive lighting.
On his earlier trip, he had also verified that the usually slow-moving current at this specific location was relatively swift. That would insure his deposit would be swept steadily along.
Initially he questioned whether or not the Chicago River would work for him. Theoretically, it might seem that a better choice would have been a river that flowed into a large body of water, as opposed to away from one. But such is not the case with this river—at least not anymore.
Thanks to a series of man-made canals, the Chicago River’s course was altered back in the late 1800s so that it flowed westward, away from Lake Michigan. The project had been undertaken to block the flow of industrial waste into Lake Michigan, because the big lake served as the city’s water supply.
When Jack initially developed his plan, he painstakingly considered all the ramifications associated with the river’s slow westward flow. He finally concluded that convenient accessibility, and size, outweighed any negative factors. Then, when he found a spot on the river where the current was relatively fast, he knew that the Chicago River would work perfectly.
“Too bad they all don’t go this well,” he thought as he glanced backward, checking to be sure that the ice had successfully begun its journey downstream. He had some concern that the hard west wind might actually blow the ice eastward, against the current. But that did not happen. Jack then smiled slightly, turned his face away from the river, and continued walking. “That’s a cool one hundred and fifty grand.”
Jack walked a little farther, and then stopped abruptly. He extended his left arm, exposing a vintage gold Rolex—a gift from his wife on their third anniversary. He held it up to a dim light he encountered about one hundred and fifty feet up river. He then turned around quickly (as though remembering something he had forgotten), and headed back toward Michigan Avenue. He had worked through the night, and he was spent—perhaps too tired, he thought, to rest well. Nevertheless, he knew that he had to try to get some sleep. He did, after all, have a plane to catch out of O’Hare at one p.m.
It was not until he had nearly reached Michigan Avenue that he realized just how cold he was. His thinly lined tan windbreaker did not block the sub-zero wind-chill gusts. Perhaps he was just too exhausted, and his body had begun to shut down. Or maybe it was because he now walked directly into the teeth of the wind. Whatever the case, Jack lowered his head, pulled the brim of his Cubs baseball cap down so it would not fly off, and held it there with his left hand to block the pelting snow from his squinting eyes. Lengthening his Asics’ stride just a bit, he forced a glance up to the stairs that led to the bridge over the river, then pointed himself in the direction of his hotel, which was on the south bank.
Just as he approached the revolving door leading into the lobby, he was startled when his phone began to vibrate. “Who could be calling me this early in the morning?” Jack wondered. Very few people knew his cell number.

Chapter 2

Chapter 2—The unexpected phone call

5:13 a.m., Sunday, December 25

Stopping just outside the hotel entrance, Jack removed his phone from its holder, and checked to see who was calling him. When he saw the name “Kitty” on the display, a large smile swept over his tired face. He then continued on into the warmness of the hotel lobby, answering the phone as he walked.
“Kitty, this is awful early to be calling your old man. What’s up?”
“You’re coming to my town today, Right?”
“Yes I am,” he answered. “Are you going to let me buy you lunch?”
“I thought you could take me out for dinner while you’re here,” Katherine (who really preferred to be called Kate) replied.
“Dinner?” Jack said, looking for a place to sit down while he talked to his daughter. “Let’s see, I don’t think it’s your birthday. And I sure know it’s not mine—I stopped having them. Must be some other special occasion.”
“No special occasion,” Kate replied. “I just miss my dad, and I was hoping to spend some time with him. What does he think about it?”
“He thinks that you have an ulterior motive,” Jack answered. “Is he right?”
“Of course he’s right,” she retorted. “Isn’t he always right?”
“Not always, but sometimes. I know my daughter real well, and I just don’t think you normally get up this early—not on a Sunday morning. So, there must be something on your mind.”
“Where you staying? Down by Penn Station?”
“That’s right,” Jack answered. I’m due in about three in the afternoon. Give me a call around five, and we’ll set something up for Monday. Is everything okay?”
“Sure, everything’s fine. I just need to pick your brain a little. You always have an answer for me when I have a tough question.”
“Kitty, I hope this isn’t about sex or anything like that. ...”
Kate chuckled, and said, “Trust me, Dad, you’re not the one I go to for matters of the heart ... or anything related to it.”
“I didn’t think so,” Jack said. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve got yourself into this time.”
“You’re gonna love it,” Kate said. “It is right up your alley. ... And, Dad, if you’re up to it, maybe we can get together yet today. If you’re not too tired.”
“Sure, I’d love to,” he said. “Call me about five.”
“I will,” she said. “And I can’t wait to see you as well. Love ya, Dad.”
“Back at you, Kitty.”
This was a perfect diversion for Jack. His daughter was the most important person left in his life. He and Kate’s mother (Beth) had been married for only three years, five months, and four days, when a bullet intended for him fatally wounded her. Kate was two years old at the time. After Beth’s death, Jack never even dated, much less remarried. Instead, he devoted all of his energy to the raising of his precious daughter.
It had been tough. As a Chicago detective, his hours were very unpredictable, and the pay was not the greatest. He knew that he was going to need some help, so he hired a wonderful Polish immigrant as a live-in. Her name was Val, which was short for something, but Jack couldn’t remember what. He immediately took a liking to the middle-aged woman, and insisted on paying her nearly twice as much as the typical live-in nanny was making at the time.
Jack slipped his cell phone back into its holder, and just sat there for few moments, relishing his memories. He replayed walking into his modest Northeast Chicago home after work, and being greeted by Val. She would be cleaning something when he walked in—the house always smelled clean. As soon as she saw him, she would stop what she was doing, take a couple steps toward him, wiping her hands on her tiny-print loose-fitting housedress. It was almost a ritual. He would walk in and say, “Hi, Val. Don’t you look nice today.” To which she would always respond, “Oh, Mr. Handler.” Then, as her round face flushed, she would momentarily break eye contact with him.
“You should be so proud of Katherine,” she would say. “She got another ‘A’. That daughter of yours is so smart.” Then, pointing down the hall with her eyes, Val would say, “Kate’s in her room studying right now.” She knew that her boss was anxious to greet his daughter, so she would immediately direct the conversation toward Kate.
It pleased Jack that Val was always upbeat. He often recalled when he first interviewed her. He noted that she never quit smiling. In fact, that smile was the reason Jack hired her. He wanted his daughter to be surrounded by laughter, and he knew of no better way to do that than to hire a nanny who loved life, and loved to make the people around her happy.
Beth was like that. She laughed and joked all the time. Of course, she could be appropriately serious when the situation called for it. But she knew how to fill a home with joy. In that respect, Val reminded him of Kate’s mother.
That was the only resemblance, however. While Val was stocky, with brown hair, blues eyes, and thick strong hands; Beth was just the opposite. Grecian ancestry gave Kate’s mother the look of a bronze goddess.
Beth had captured Jack’s heart the first moment he saw her.  He had met her on the job. She was the first chair violinist for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, while he was a young cop who had found himself assigned to one of her performances for crowd control. After the concert, he spotted her leaving the theater, and edged his way close to her.  Their eyes met, and she smiled.
“Can I hail a cab for you?” Jack asked, smiling back.
That’s all it took. Jack spent the next year winning the heart of this beautiful woman, and they were married exactly fourteen months after their first encounter.
Then it happened. The moment he feared. No matter how hard he tried to block out the events of that awful night, sometimes, especially when he was exhausted, those visions of terror fought their way through his defenses.
Beth had just performed at a concert. Afterward, he took her out for a drink. When the taxi dropped them off at their house, gunmen were waiting. Jack never saw it coming. Two casually dressed men got out of a parked car, approached them, and started firing point blank with 9mm semi automatic pistols. Jack took four rounds before he could draw his “Service Six” to return fire. Beth was hit only once—but that was in the face, and it was fatal. It was clear that the men were after Jack, and his unfortunate wife was collateral. But she was the one they killed.
Even though seriously wounded, Jack got off six rounds from his Smith and Wesson revolver. Two of Jack’s bullets struck one attacker—one in the chest, and one in the neck. Either wound would have been fatal. He hit the second with single round to the heart—also fatal. His other three rounds missed both attackers, and were never found.
None of Jack’s wounds were life threatening. In fact, he lost consciousness only after the volley was finished, and then just momentarily. He took a round to his left hand when he reached out trying to deflect his attacker’s pistol while he drew his own. A second round glanced off his left shoulder, and one lodged in his left leg after it had ricocheted off the sidewalk.
The fourth round would have hit him squarely in the head had the shooter not been hit in the chest as he fired. Instead, it merely glanced off Jack’s forehead, knocking him to the sidewalk. That shot was the last round fired, because by that time both of the attackers had received fatal wounds, and were falling to the ground. They died on the sidewalk only inches apart. That was fortunate for Jack, as he was also face down on the concrete, stunned, immobile, and with an empty revolver locked in his right hand.
Jack never really knew how long he laid there on the sidewalk. For months, the only thing he recalled about the event was waking up with his cheek on the cold hard concrete. It was not clear if the bullet knocked him out, or if it was the concussion caused by the sidewalk when he struck his head.
On this night, sitting in the lobby of that Chicago hotel, in his mind he could still smell the odor of burned gunpowder. And, of course, the horrible ferrous smell of blood—lots of blood.  He recalled slowly regaining consciousness, and struggling to comfort his fallen wife. But his hand fell short, reaching only to the warm, sticky moistness that had pooled around her face. In shock, he pushed himself up enough to see death in her dilated eyes.
At that point, Jack wished death for himself, but it did not come.
He remembered trying and failing to stand. He saw the two dead attackers, but had no idea how they got there. He then started vomiting.
He surmises that he must have passed out again, because his next recollection was waking up in a hospital, with tubes in both of his arms, and doctors and nurses hovering over him.
Jack had not wanted the memory of Beth’s murder to captivate his thoughts on this night. But he knew that sooner or later it would crash down on him. It always happened on Christmas. And even though he had kept himself preoccupied with his work, Kate’s call triggered the old memories. He removed a paper towel he had stuck in his jacket pocket to wipe off any excess moisture from the case he used to transport the ice. And, using that paper towel, he blotted the tears from his eyes.
Jack had taken six months off after the attack. He even thought about quitting the force altogether. Instead, at his lieutenant’s suggestion, he returned to Northwestern University. There he earned a master’s degree in criminal justice, and eventually became a Chicago detective.
One of the most significant contacts he made in college was that of a captivating professor. This fellow had retired after twenty years on the force. He and Jack became good friends—probably because the professor had also been shot in the line of duty. When he heard Jack’s story, and learned that raising a daughter alone was exacting an overwhelming financial burden on Jack, he helped his protÈgÈe find part-time work in the private sector.
Jack liked that. In fact, by the time Kate was five years old, Jack was earning more moonlighting than he was at his job with the city. Within a few more years, he had built up such a nice business that he took an early retirement from the department, and turned his avocation into his full-time job.
“What could be so important to Kitty,” Jack wondered, “that she would wake up this early, on Christmas day, just to call me?”
On other occasions, when Kate would call him to get his opinion on something, it always had to do with a case she was working on. Kate had followed in her father’s footsteps. Except, instead of working in Chicago, Kate was a detective based out of a Manhattan precinct.
“I’ll bet she is on a case that has her stumped.” Jack muttered aloud. “Damn, it’s nice to be wanted, … or, at least needed.”

Chapter 3

Chapter 3—Jack prepares for New York

5:25 a.m., Sunday, December 25

Jack’s mind was racing as though he had just tossed down two double espressos. He was wide-awake. Not only was he excited about going back to New York, now he was doubly wired at the prospect of spending time with his daughter—especially since she was requesting to see him.
“I need something to put me to sleep,” he thought, eyeing the hotel coffee shop. Jack had a sugar issue. He did not fully understand it, but he knew that if he ate a donut or two, with a glass of milk, within thirty minutes he would fall asleep. Usually he would wake back up after a few hours. But that would be just fine this time. All he really wanted was to fall asleep. He knew his mind and body would recover enough to function the rest of the day, even with only a limited amount of good rest
Jack never gloried in past achievements. And he never wallowed in his failures. He simply did not engage in second-guessing. From the moment the ice hit the water less than an hour earlier, he was on a new mission. This one called him to New York. And from what he could surmise, it was a big job, offering a much larger payday.
As he walked through the lobby, Jack was relieved to see that the coffee shop was open, even on Christmas morning. He was going to need his “donut and milk fix” to relax.
Whenever Jack ate in a restaurant, he always sought out a corner booth or table—one that afforded him a clear view of the entrance. He was pleased that on this occasion he was able to seat himself. He found a booth near the rear, one from which he could monitor those entering the coffee shop, as well as keep an eye on Riverwalk activity. He knew that a person in his line of work would stay alive only if he remained keenly aware of his surroundings.
“Sure, Honey, we have milk,” the waitress said, with more than a friendly smile. “Would you like it warmed? With a nipple perhaps?”
Jack looked up at her and smiled. “No, cold and in a glass will do just fine. ... Two percent, if you’ve got it. And how about one of those large frosted cinnamon buns? Could you warm one of those up for me?”
“Darlin’, I can warm up more than that for you.” She set a glass of water in front of Jack.  She then placed both hands on the table, and leaned toward him, exposing more than an ample cleavage. “Would you like anything else?”
Jack did appreciate the attention, and the view; but he chose not to acknowledge the flirt. He merely smiled again, and replied, “thanks, one of those large rolls, warmed up, would be great.”
The waitress smiled again. “I’ll be right back, Hon,” she said, as she turned and walked toward the kitchen. Jack’s eyes locked on her shapely form until she disappeared behind double swinging doors. “Youth Dew,” he thought. “That’s what she was wearing—Estee Lauder Youth Dew.”
That was the fragrance that Beth always wore.
He slowly ate half of the white-frosted cinnamon bun, and drank most of his two percent. After about twenty minutes, he caught himself staring wide eyed and unfocused through the window out into the Chicago darkness. The sugar had kicked in. Sensing his heart significantly slowing, he glanced down at his watch. “Five forty-five. Time to head up to my room,” he thought, snatching the bill as he stood to leave.
Just then he heard his cell phone ring. He had turned it on audible after Kate’s call. He recognized this ring tone. “Reg,” he said, “what are you doing up this time of the morning? … Christmas morning, no less?”
Jack’s face grew somber, as he detected his caller’s extreme agitation. He stood motionless, gripping the bill in his left hand, and holding his cell with his right. “Reg, we can’t discuss this on the phone. I’m catching a one o’clock out of O’Hare. I’ll be in the city by three. Why don’t you meet me at LaGuardia? ... Sure. No problem. I am whipped right now, but I’m going to get some rest before the flight. ... See you there. I’ll only have a few minutes though—gotta meet with my daughter, Kitty. You remember Kate—right? ... But we’ll have time to cover the basics ... great. ... See ya then.”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Jack thought. Looking down at his phone, he found and pushed the “off” button with his very large right thumb. “I have got to get some rest.”
He then slid his phone into the holder, picked up the bill, and slapped a ten on the table as a tip for the overly friendly waitress. Almost immediately he picked it back up and swapped it for a five. “Can’t have her getting the wrong idea,” he reasoned.
“Time for this guy to get a little shut-eye,” he said to himself. He paid his bill, and headed to his room.
On his way up, Jack could not help but wonder what had made his friend so nervous. The contract in New York had been set up by a very close friend of his, Reginald Black. Up until this call, Jack had not given the job a second thought. “Just another day at the office,” he figured. Through the years he had worked many jobs with his friend, and never before had he ever heard Reginald sound so worked up.
Jack felt his heart start to race. “Can’t let this happen,” he thought. “Got to get some rest. I’ll deal with Reg’s problems when I get to New York.”

Chapter 4

Chapter 4—If we play this right …
3:15 a.m., Friday, December 30

Allison looked up at James, and asked, "What time is it?"

"Three fifteen," James replied without looking at his watch.

James Colson and Allison Fulbright had spent the whole late evening and early morning drinking and spilling Scotch in a fourth floor Central Park East apartment. Allison was doing most of the drinking, and all of the spilling.

She had gathered up every pillow and bed covering from the entire apartment, and piled them on the floor in Bernadette’s office. She sat in the middle of the pile, with a half-full glass. James sat at Bernadette’s desk, logged on to her computer. The only light in the whole room emanated from a small florescent reading light above where he was working, and from the monitor.

"How in hell did we get to this place?" Allison muttered, miserably slurring her words. She was drunk.

James swiveled around to face her. "We’ll survive this, Al. But we have to act quickly ... and decisively."

When that word "survive" bounced around and through Allison’s neurons, it disrupted her whole being. Her bloodshot hazel eyes immediately opened widely, accenting an uncharacteristically pathetic frown on her sixty-year-old face. For just a moment it appeared that she might burst into tears; but she quickly resisted the urge.

There was nothing attractive about Allison’s appearance on this early New York morning. Her bobbed dishwater blond hair was a mess. Whatever minimal makeup she might have started with was gone. And the Ralph Lauren robe did nothing to mask her thick calves and hefty thighs. At virtually every other time during any given day, her patented designer beige pantsuits did that job as well as could be hoped for. But she was trying to relax, and she was drunk—always a bad combination when it comes to ones appearance.

But even though she did have too much to drink, she was not sufficiently intoxicated to insulate her feelings from that horrible word James tossed in her direction.

"Survive! What the hell do you mean by that? Survive? I don’t want to survive, I want to be President. Damn it, James, I’m supposed to be President. Surviving doesn’t mean anything to me. If you don’t get that by now you’re no damn use to me. If I’m not sitting in the Oval Office in two years, I might as well be dead. Don’t you get it? That’s all that matters. That is absolutely all that matters."

Allison had already spent eight years in the White House as the wife of a popular President, and had designs on the office for herself. This driving desire dated back to her days as a law student at Yale. After her husband’s second term had ended, Allison spent every moment planning her return to Pennsylvania Avenue, but this time as the first female President of the United States.

Most political analysts predicted she would win the nomination eight years after her husband left office. However, even though she made a powerful attempt, she lost too many primaries, and was forced to pull out of the race. She felt she was cheated—she was convinced that she had deserved to be the candidate.

"You’re not looking at this from the right perspective."

"What other perspective is there? That bastard printed every word we said. Verbatim! Every damn word that came out of our mouths. It’s all right there in your hands, James."

With that, Allison threw up in the large bowl James had placed at her side. It was not the first time. She had been pouring Scotch for several hours, and much of it had made its way between her lips twice. With a slow mechanical swiping motion, she wiped her mouth off with a towel he had placed alongside the bowl. Then, as very drunk people are prone to do, she examined the towel to see what she might have deposited on it, her head weaving a little as she did.

Allison was dressed comfortably. Before she even knew that she was going to meet with James, she had already finished one glass of Scotch, started another, and traded her heels and favorite pantsuit for the robe and more comfortable foot wear. As she sat swaying on the floor, she suddenly realized that she was wearing only one slipper. For some reason, the whereabouts of the missing slipper began to preoccupy her. She did not try to stand, but she did raise her head enough to peer around the office in search of it.

"But you’re not seeing the larger picture, Al. Mossad does not want you destroyed. I can’t believe they seek that. They are simply trying to prevent an assassination. They distrust this guy as much as we do, but they fear a power vacuum more than his screwed up Mideast policies.

"This is how I see it. They recorded our meetings all right, but they’re holding onto the recordings. And they’ll keep holding them. But only if we give them what they want. They are very good at what they do. If we play ball, there is no way that they will ever release those recordings; at least not in our lifetime. I am sure we can win this thing."

With that, Allison propped herself up against a large pillow that was leaning against the wall. She had, for a moment, fallen on her side, and was lying in a quasi-fetal position. She had found that posture quite pleasant—so comfortable, in fact, that for a moment she considered just falling asleep for a while. But James’ words had got her attention, and now she intently listened to what he was saying.

"What exactly do you mean, my dear James? They have already released the damn tapes ... to that bastard reporter ..."

She had not finished her sentence before James started shaking his head. "No, I doubt that very much. In fact, I’m virtually positive they did not give him the recordings. It’s obvious that all this guy had to work with were transcriptions. And transcriptions don’t mean diddly-squat if you don’t have the actual recordings, or a good witness to corroborate."

James was from the South. In every respect he was a true Southern Gentleman—an African-American Southern Gentleman. Because of his good southern upbringing, he always had an aversion to using strong language in front of a lady. And, even though Allison often sounded more like a truck driver than a former First Lady, James always tried to avoid profanity in her presence.

Allison appreciated the fact that James was always attentive to her, and that he was polite—two attributes totally absent in her relationship with her husband.

James had no obvious flaws. He was ruggedly handsome. It was said about him that he had a voice for radio and a face for TV. His six-foot two-inch frame carried his 187 pounds well. It was obvious to all that he worked out regularly. And not just cardiovascular exercises—he lifted major weights twice a week.

But beyond his good looks, James was liked and respected by all that knew him. He never opened his mouth unless he already knew how his words would affect the people to whom he was speaking. Not that he engaged in nuance. He did not. He just simply thought his words through carefully. And he never lied.

He could often be seen sitting quietly, even in a conference meeting, not saying a thing. Then, at the appropriate time, he would interject something profound—concise and profound. No matter who was talking at the time, everyone stopped and paid attention to what James had to say.

For all the same reasons, both Bob and Allison totally trusted James.

"Okay, I’m listening," Allison said.

Rolling his chair closer to where Allison was sitting, James leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.

Allison had observed that posture a hundred times before. She knew this meant that James was really on to something. Even though Allison was drunk, her mind was clear enough to critically process James’ words.

Suddenly he jumped up from his chair and briskly walked out to the kitchen. James never did anything slowly, especially when his mind was so magically engaged. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed two bottles of water, and then returned to where Allison was sitting. He opened both. Handing one to Allison, he said, "drink this. We’ve got to flush your system. We’ve both got work to do."

Allison took a small sip of the water. She was not feeling well, and suspected that she would not be able to hold it down.

"Don’t worry about it. Just drink it. Drink as much as you can. If you toss it, that’s fine. That’ll just flush some of that expensive Scotch out of your system."

Allison hated to be told what to do. But she knew James was right. So she took several large swallows.

She then looked James in the eye, and asked: "Okay. What makes you think this idiot writer does not have the tapes?"

"It just figures. If he had the actual recordings, he would be using them right now. Writers, even hack writers like this jerk, they hate to be questioned, much less doubted. If he had the recordings, he would have sent something along with this to prove credibility—something substantial, irrefutable. He would be trying to establish a strong bargaining position."

James paused for a moment, and then continued: "He sent only this transcript. Considering all the allegations that can be inferred from it, it is beyond curious for him to send it without any corroborating evidence. That tells us one thing—he has no proof. He wants us to think he has, but I’m convinced that he’s either bluffing, or, … perhaps he’s not even a real journalist."

"Keep going," Allison said, taking another long drink of water.

"Look. I’ve tickled every friendly news outlet. Nothing suggests that anyone else has specific knowledge about this. The only thing I ran into were rumors, and I think I might have started all of them. … And the thing about rumors is, they don’t mean a thing. If anyone in the media, and I do mean anyone, had recordings, or had even heard the real thing; or if anyone had anything else whatsoever to substantiate this story, somebody would know about it."

James paused again to gather his thoughts, and to get Allison’s attention. He then continued, "Mossad has them. Mossad created them, and they continue to hold them. And, knowing the way Mossad works, they’re not about to give them up, not to anyone; especially not to anyone in the media."

Allison belched in the most unladylike fashion, and then threw up again in the bowl.

"That’s great, get rid of it. We’ve got to get you cleaned out. You’re gonna hold the most important press conference of your life. And it has to be today."

"I can’t do that. Just look at me. I’m a mess."

"Has to be today. And you can do it. It’s Friday. Whatever we get out there today, if it is early enough, it will still carry the weekend. It couldn’t be more perfect. … Well, that’s an overstatement. It certainly could be better. But given what we have to work with, I am sure we can turn this whole thing around, if we do it right. … And right away. At the very least, we’ll buy some time."

"Okay, James, let’s go over this," Allison said, struggling to sober up. Her words were becoming noticeably less slurred.

"That a girl, Al."

James grew quiet for a moment, organizing his thoughts in a way that he knew Allison would appreciate. "If we’re going to pull this off, you have to be up to speed and totally on board," he said. "Here’s the deal. Mossad did a great job. They went to a lot of effort. Now listen carefully here. This next part is very important."

James again rested his elbows on his knees, and looked deeply into Allison’s slowly sobering eyes. "Okay. If Mossad had wanted to destroy you, and your potential presidency, they would have released the recordings to the FBI—not had this fellow give transcripts to us. All they really wanted to accomplish was to avoid a power vacuum. And that’s exactly what they feared would happen if President Butler were to be assassinated."

"So, then, is it off? Is our plan dead?"

"Don’t know for sure. Can’t know for sure, at least not for right now. At the very least, it has been changed. Our job, right now, is to turn this story, or non-story, on its head. We have to deflect whatever comes out, and prevent it from grabbing the headlines. Because, if it is released now, without our doing something to direct public attention away from it, potentially it could be very damaging. … No, that’s an understatement. This story, if allowed to take root, will destroy us all. We have to give the press a bigger fish.

"I don’t think this guy, or anyone else, is about to run this story. But if a story about these meetings were to get out, it could be all that gets talked about for a very long time.

"And that’s what we need—a little time. We need to figure out what Mossad is really after, and how they plan to use what they’ve got for the short term. We need a little breathing room. ... But, I can promise you that we do not have to worry about the actual recordings ever being released to the media. You can trust me on this one, Allison."

"But, James, they do have physical evidence of a conspiracy. And not just any conspiracy. They’ve got proof that we plotted to assassinate the President of the United States." As those words escaped her lips, she finally started to cry.

"That’s right, Mossad does have recordings. And for sure they are incriminating. But that’s not the end of the world. … and, as I said before, we can work through this. In fact, I think this whole matter can end up being a positive thing—if we manage it properly."

"Are you out of your mind? How in hell can conspiracy tapes work for us?"

"They can—I promise you. We just have to handle it properly," James said, in his most reassuring voice.

Allison was not sure she believed him yet, but she wanted to.

"Now, if the Russians had the recordings, it would be a totally different story. But Mossad does not want this country, or you, destroyed. Without us, where would they be? And you have always been a supporter. …So, okay, they’ve got some very embarrassing recordings of us conspiring. Thus far they have used what they’ve got brilliantly. Like a warning shot across our bow. …The bottom line is this, I think. While they may have blocked us here, temporarily, we must keep in mind that we’re playing chess, not checkers. It could be that they just want to be a player. Maybe they think they have a better idea."

James paused a moment, and then continued. "Al, you still can be President. Only the when and the how remain to be worked out. Perhaps all they need is to be assured that the transition will be a smooth one. It might not be this next election cycle, but it will happen. The very fact that Mossad holds those recordings can be beneficial to your cause."

"I heard you say that before. I don’t see how that can happen."

"Once you are in office, and it is quite possible that they may very well help us get you there, they will use what they have—but not to destroy you. …They will expect favors—maybe missiles, missile defense, fighter jets. So, you give them some B-1s. Big deal. They’re not going to use them to bomb DC.

"If we let them help us get you in the Oval Office, they will be willing to support your every move, as long as you consult with them occasionally—particularly on Mideast matters. They will think they have you in their pocket; but you will own them. If we play this right, that’s exactly how it will be."

Just then there was a loud pounding on the door.

"FBI, open up."

Chapter 5

Chapter 5—Kate’s mystery unfolds

5:15 p.m., Sunday, December 25

Jack’s flight arrived on time at LaGuardia, but Reginald was not there to meet him. When he called to see where his friend was, his call went directly to voice mail. That did not trouble Jack, because in their line of work there were many times when calls simply could not be answered. The unexpected became the norm. Jack left a message that he was checking into his hotel, and that Reginald could contact him later if he wished.
Jack was pleased that he was able to get some rest before and during the flight, and that the cab ride to his hotel was uneventful.
 “Kitty, it’s your old man,” Jack said to his daughter. He had called her as he was unpacking his suitcase.
“Dad,” Kate answered. “You’ve landed. Where are you staying? … Wait, let me guess. One of those hotels down by Penn Station. Am I right?”
“Kitty, you’re always right,” Jack teased his daughter. “Even when you’re wrong, you’re right. ... Right?”
“Dad,” Kate said.
“What time is it?” Jack asked, looking down at his watch. “Five-sixteen. Are you in town yet, or are you out on the Island?”
“I’m in town. I’m getting together with you—remember? I thought I would hang around in case you weren’t too tired. Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee yet today? What do you think?” Kate asked.
“Love to, Kitty,” Jack replied, quickly accepting his daughter’s offer. “I would like to jump in the shower first. How about you grab a taxi to Penn Station. We’ll meet up, and figure stuff out from there? Will that work for you? Can’t wait to see you.”
Kate knew her father well. She had anticipated what he would suggest, and he did not disappoint her.
“I’ll call you at 6:10. Does that sound about right?” she asked.
“Perfect,” Jack said. “I should be there by then. It’s only a few blocks.”
While Jack and his daughter were close, neither of them actually went out of their way to get together. But, whenever Jack was in New York, he would always give Kate a call. If she had time (and she always had time for him), she would meet her father at a restaurant—or, as was the case this time, at a coffee shop. But seldom at the same place twice.
The lone exception to that rule was Kate’s favorite steak house. Jack had taken his daughter there three times. It had become one of their favorite haunts. This time, Jack detected a sense of urgency in his daughter’s voice. He had no idea what was prompting it, but he knew she needed something that she was convinced he alone could supply.
Jack checked his watch again, as he stripped down. He knew this shower would take three minutes—no longer. Perhaps a bit less, given his desire to see his daughter. He had learned self-discipline from his time as an Army Ranger. Three minutes for a shower, two to shave, three to five to get dressed. It was not as though he were on a stopwatch, but he maintained that schedule just the same.
He was even a disciplined sleeper. He always tried to go to bed at 9 p.m. But, regardless of what time he retired, he seemed to wake up promptly at 5 a.m. He did not need an alarm, but he still set a reminder on his watch anyway. From 5 a.m. until 6, he worked out.
Sometimes his workout regimen interfered with an appointment. When it did, he merely shifted the routine enough to accommodate it. But he always found time to exercise.
As soon as Jack emerged from his shower, he quickly shaved and got dressed.
Just as he was ready to leave, he opened up a zippered section of his luggage, and removed a heavy Velcro sealed bag. From it he removed an electronic device that he had devised. It was a transportable magnetic lock. He took it out and carried it over to the door of his hotel room. Carefully he positioned it on the door. A permanent magnet held it in place. He then activated the mechanism by turning on a mechanical switch. Instantly, he could hear one side of the magnetic lock attach itself to the steel door jam, and the other to the steel door.
He then disengaged the mechanical lock on the door, and tried to open it. The magnetic lock held it securely. It was rated at 1500 pounds, when the battery was fully charged. That was enough locking power to discourage the largest sumo wrestler.
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out an RF remote, like the one he used to unlock his car. He had programmed the magnetic lock to the same frequency. So, when he hit the button, his door released electronically, and he opened it up. After fifteen seconds, it relocked.
He wanted to test it from outside, so he unlocked his magnetic lock, and went out the door to the corridor. He listened for his lock to engage. After fifteen seconds, he heard the familiar “click” of the magnet attaching to the door jam. He then slid his hotel card into the lock, and turned the door handle. He pushed on the door heavily, but it would not budge. He then looked down the corridor to be sure no one was observing him, and he lowered his shoulder and hit the door with substantial force. Still, the lock held.
“That’ll be just fine,” Jack thought, as he headed to the elevator.
He knew the battery was fully charged, and would therefore secure his door to the maximum four hours. When he returned, he would attach it to a charger. He never left the charger on the lock when he was outside the room. His concern was that he might lose the remote; or, for some unknown reason, his invention might stop working. Were that to happen, he would only have to wait out the battery. After five hours, he knew that it would have discharged sufficiently, allowing him to force open the lock. Jack always had a contingency plan.
When he was inside the room, however, he would activate the lock with the charger engaged. That way he could be quite comfortable that he was untouchable against any attack through the door—at least, any conventional attack. He was well aware that the preferred method for forcing a locked hotel room door was a hydraulic spreader. The way that device worked was to spread the jam of the door away from the lock. Once the standard lock was free, the door could be opened enough to cut any standard hotel secondary lock, thus allowing entry. He also knew that this whole attack could be accomplished with virtually no sound, and would take only a few seconds.
His magnetic lock was not susceptible to this entry method. He had engineered the portion that attached to the door jam on a sliding pivot—that way it could travel the inch or so that the jam spreader might create, and still hold the door securely.
He was very happy with the way his lock worked, and often considered obtaining a patent. But he thought better of it, because he knew that should he do that, those interested in attacking hotel rooms would merely upgrade their methods.
Besides, he knew that once the drawings were filed with the patent office, offshore manufacturers would start mass-producing it for a fraction of what he could. He thought it sufficient that the lock served him well.
Sometimes he wore a disguise when he was traveling—even in New York. But this time, because he was meeting with Kate, he thought it best to be himself. He figured that there would be a fair chance that they might run into someone who recognized Kate, and that she would want to introduce the friend to her father. He needed to be himself, this time, and he was okay with that.
Besides, never in all the times he visited (or worked in) New York had anyone ever recognized him. He did always make it a point to stay at smaller, out-of-the-way hotels. While the hotel he had chosen this time was not particularly small, it suited Jack well because it always appeared to be fully-booked—probably due to the fact that the rooms were very small, and relatively inexpensive. It was a favorite of foreign and domestic tourists who wanted to save money.
Not only did Jack like the fact that this particular hotel provided a good level of anonymity, he also appreciated that it was very conveniently located across Eighth Avenue from Penn Station—only a five minute walk from Madison Square Garden, and a five minute taxi ride from Jacob Javits.
While it did not hurt that the price was right, and that the hotel was conveniently positioned, it was that aura of privacy that won his patronage for this trip.
Today, however, Jack’s privacy was going to be violated. Just as he prepared to exit the hotel on his way to meet Kate, he sensed a person sliding up from the rear much more quickly than suited him. He then saw the man’s reflection in the glass next to the revolving door. He was right. Someone was approaching him quickly.
So, instead of entering the large revolving door, he suddenly stepped aside, and turned toward the man. For just a moment their eyes met. Then, as his training kicked in, Jack checked out both of the man’s hands. He immediately spotted a six-inch long ice pick extending out of the man’s right hand, so Jack took a full step backward to prepare for battle.
But, instead of facing off with Jack, the would-be attacker simply slid the weapon into the pocket of his long wool coat, and proceeded to leave the hotel through the revolving door. Jack chose not to pursue the man. Instead, he remained off to the side, and watched the man squeeze out of the door as quickly as possible, forcibly stopping the mechanism as he exited.
The man glanced back to see if Jack was following. Their eyes met briefly once again.

Chapter 6

Chapter 6—More questions than answers

6:03 p.m., Sunday, December 25

Jack carefully closed a razor-sharp combat knife with his thumb, and slid it back into his jacket pocket. He had pulled out and flipped open the blade at the first sign of danger. Now that he was certain that he had thwarted the attack, and that Ice Pick Man did not have a partner with him, Jack began to wind down. “What the hell was this all about?” He wondered,
“Damn it!” Jack muttered under his breath. “That was just too close. I’ve got to be more careful.”
There would be no point in pursuing the man—his attacker sought to kill him, he had no reason to return that favor, at least not for right now. Instead, he just stepped outside the hotel to get a better look at the stranger who had wanted to pierce his heart and lungs.
Amazingly young and fit, Jack observed. Especially to be wielding such an unusual weapon. Sure, an ice pick can be a very deadly weapon. But it was hardly a popular instrument of choice by professionals. Jack had heard that only women and old men used ice picks for anything other than chilling mixed drinks. But he knew that just was not the case.
“Really strange—really strange,” he continued to mutter, taking an additional few steps toward the street, in order to get a better view of the man who had just reached the corner, and had turned west on 34th Street. As Ice-pick Man disappeared behind the corner of the hotel, he glanced back to see if Jack was following.
Jack sensed his heart racing. “This is a bunch of garbage,” he said, again to himself. “Here I am running around with this damn knife. Even a can of mace would work better than this two inch piece of steel.”
Jack waited in front of the hotel long enough for Ice-pick Man to get safely away. “What the hell could this be about?” he asked himself. “That guy must be working for someone. But who could that possibly be? And why would someone want to kill me badly enough to hire a professional—and with an ice pick, of all things? And what idiot would try to pull off something like this, right out in the open? Someone must be pretty damn desperate.”
Only two people should have known that he was coming to New York—his friend, Reginald, and his daughter. Jack had worked with his buddy Reginald on several projects. He knew Reginald to be the consummate professional—someone who would not allow any sensitive information to pass through his lips. The success of jobs such as this depended on total secrecy, and Jack was sure Reginald respected that concept.
“Must be Kate has been talking,” Jack surmised.
“Let me think about this. That fellow was too young to be a typical hired killer. Must be he works for an organization. Now, I would guess that it could be the Russians, or maybe Mossad. … I’ve got to see what that girl of mine has got herself into.”
So, at a brisker than normal pace, and with a new-found intensity, Jack took the first walk light at 34th St., crossing over Eighth Avenue. As he got to the middle of Eighth Avenue, he could not resist the urge to glance west down 34th St., just to be sure Ice-pick Man was not lurking around the corner, seeking to complete the job.
Just as Jack had expected, the man was long gone. He then continued crossing 34th, and headed toward Penn Station. After only a few moments, He heard the familiar voice of his daughter.
“Dad!” Kate called out. “Over here.”

Chapter 7

Chapter 7—Kate’s puzzle, 

and her old friend Kurt

6:10 p.m., Sunday, December 25

The two hugged each other closely, as only a dad and his loving daughter can hug. “And how’s my favorite daughter?” Jack asked.
“I’m your only daughter, Silly,” Kate chuckled.
Still gripping his daughter’s arms, Jack pushed her back to get a good look at her. “Man, you just get better looking every day. How can a beautiful young girl like you still be single … and in New York City, no less? Aren’t there any red-blooded males in this town?”
“Thanks for the compliment, Dad, but you know I’m not interested in getting married—at least not right now. You’re the only man in my life.”
They had similar discussions before. Jack would like to see his only daughter find a man, a worthy man. He and Kate’s mother had something really special, and he wanted to see Kate find a love like that.
“I know, I know,” Jack said. “I’m just messing with you. … Where’re we headed? Isn’t there a coffee shop around here?”
“Sure is,” Kate replied. “Follow me.”
Kate then grabbed her father’s hand, and pulled him toward the steps leading down into Penn Station. Being that it was Christmas, there were not many other people to deal with. She tightly gripped his hand while they walked. This reminded Jack of the times he and his wife would hold hands just like that. Beth’s hands would be cold, much like Kate’s hand was cold on this night, and he would warm his wife simply by holding her hand.
“Right around this corner,” Kate said. “Here. This is an okay place. At least they have great espressos. I think you will like it.”
As the two of them walked in, Kate pointed to a table in the corner, and told her dad to go capture it. “Still like double espressos?” she asked, as she headed toward the counter.
“That would be great,” Jack said, squeezing into a chair in the corner. This gave him a panoramic view of the mostly empty coffee shop. Kate knew many of her dad’s idiosyncrasies, including his desire to always be in a position to size up his surrounding.
Just a few minutes later, Kate carried two double espressos over to the table. “I’ll grab a couple waters,” she said, setting both of the cups down in front of her father. She returned quickly with two small plastic glasses of water.
“I can’t believe this place is open on Christmas,” Jack marveled.
“365,” Kate said, as she sat down in front of her father.
“Okay, Kitten, what’s going on in your life that’s got you so troubled?” Jack asked his daughter.
Her countenance immediately changed, as though a somber cloud descended over her. He knew something major was up. She just silently stared down at her coffee for a few moments. Finally, Kate looked up at him. The expression on her face puzzled him. He had never before seen her this unsettled.
“Dad, I’ve got myself into something that I do not know how to deal with,” Kate said. “I’ve had tough cases before. I’ve had my life threatened before. But always I felt like I had a handle on what was going on. Gang killings—I can handle them okay. Domestic crime, I can deal with that too.  But I do not know what to do with one of my new cases.”
“What can you tell me about it?” Jack asked, making sure not to lead his daughter where she should not go.
“It’s a murder,” Kate said. “That’s obvious, after all, I am a homicide detective,” Kate looked down at her espresso again, and forced a strained chuckle. “But this one has a different feel to it, Dad. It feels like something bigger—something a little strange.”
“Strange in what way?” Jack asked.
“Dad, how many people get murdered with an ice pick, in public, during rush hour, waiting for a train? Doesn’t that alone sound strange to you?”
“With an ice pick?” Jack asked rhetorically. It was obvious that his daughter now had his undivided attention. “I always thought that only old men and crazy women killed with ice picks. And then only on trains, not waiting for them.”
“Right. Exactly.” Kate said. “But this murder was committed in a train tunnel. The victim was on his regular evening commute from DC back to Penn Station. Someone walked up behind him, slid an ice pick right through his left lung, puncturing his heart, pulled it out, and pushed it into him again, piercing his right lung. Death was almost instantaneous. And it wasn’t an old man or a crazy woman. Witnesses say that they saw a young man walk up to the vic and talk to him. Several describe the man as in his mid-thirties, white, well-dressed, powerfully built, and wearing glasses.”
  “The glasses might have been to throw you off,” Jack said.
“That’s what we thought, too.”
“Sounds like an episode of Sherlock Holmes to me,” Jack said, trying to lighten up the conversation. “Any one able to come up with a tentative ID for this guy? Or a motive?”
“No. All they saw was the victim being shoved against one of the vertical support beams. He held himself up for a few moments, and then just slid down it. It was during the busy rush hour, and he did not bleed out much. Most thought he had suffered a heart attack.”
“What about the ice pick? Did the killer leave it in the victim, or pull it out?” Jack inquired.
“Strange that you should ask. He broke the handle off, leaving the pick part in the victim,” Kate answered. “… But you already knew that didn’t you?”
“Yeah, that’s what I suspected. It sounds almost like a prison hit. They usually break the shiv off inside the victim, and take only the handle. Much more effective when carried out like that. If it is broken off inside the victim, the vic can’t pull it out. So he just bleeds internally. Plus, it leaves no fingerprints.”
“So, you think that the killer has done hard time? Is that what you are thinking?” Kate asked.
“Not necessarily. Obviously, an ice pick is not a sharpened toothbrush. But the same principle might apply. A break-away tip on an ice pick could suggest a professional hit. In fact, that’s exactly what my initial observation would be.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Kate replied, quite contented to see that her father agreed with her line of thinking. “What makes this even more interesting,” she continued, “is what turned up inside the lining of the vic’s jacket. That’s really why I called you. I want you to take a look at,” Kate said, reaching into her purse and pulling out an envelope.
“Maybe you can make something of this,” Kate said, as she slid the contents out of the envelope, and pushed it toward her father.
“This is a copy,” she said, “the original is still in Forensics.”
Jack received a folded, hand-written sheet of paper from his daughter, and studied it. After a minute, he said, “this is a simple cryptogram. Couldn’t this guy afford a computer?”

SGCN JNRE SDHC SDCJ MHVW
CECP DCQJ MRPP NCNG TNTQW
CRVR DDPKS CDJR DJADA PXZZ
FQOPO PJKA TFGJS

“Oh, he could afford one all right,” Kate replied.
“What sort of work did he do?” Jack asked.
“State Department, mid level,” She said.
“State Department,” Jack repeated.
“Did you say this was a simple cryptogram?” Kate asked. “Can you decipher it?”
“I did say that,” Jack answered. “But simple does not necessarily mean easy. By simple I mean basic. It’s not a complicated encryption. But it is probably not easy at all to decipher. And it would be inscrutable to any encryption software. In fact, without the key, or keys, short cryptograms such as these are virtually impossible to decipher.”
“What do you mean by “keys?” Kate asked.
“Think like this,” Jack said. “All a cryptogram does is substitute one letter for another, in some orderly fashion. It requires that the recipient of the code have the key, which merely explains the method of letter substitution employed by the creator of the code. Knowing the key is critical. Especially if there might be multiple keys. Which I suspect is the case here.” Jack then laid the paper down on the table so he could explain it to Kate. But before he commented on it, he flipped it over to take a look at the back. “This is a copy, right?” Jack asked.
“Right, it is a copy,” Kate told him. “The original is stored as evidence.”
“Take a look at how the message is divided into four lines of characters. That suggests there are probably four keys—a separate key for each line. There’s no software out there that I know of that could crack this without the keys. The lines are too short to develop patterns, or to apply methods involving order and frequency. These things can be created on the fly, and are very effective.”
“So, there’s nothing you can do with it without a key?” Kate asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Jack said. “This guy was with the State Department, you say. Just what was his area of expertise? Do you know that?”
“East European and Asian, primarily,” Kate answered.
“Russia, China, Poland?” Jack asked.
“Russia and China—mostly Russian affairs,” she said.
“I’ll show you how simple this can be,” Jack said. “It probably won’t work, but I think it’s a reasonable place to start. Who knows, we might get lucky. Let’s assume that one of the keys is ‘Russia.’ Let’s apply it to the first line. If Russia is a key for one of the lines, then ‘r’ will take the place of the first letter in the alphabet, ‘a.’ Then ‘u’ is ‘b’, ‘s’ is ‘c’, and ‘s’ is also ‘d’, ‘i’ is ‘e’, and ‘a’ is ‘f.’ From there you basically start the alphabet over, plugging in the unused characters in order.”
“You lost me.”
“Okay, just follow this, Jack said, pulling out a tablet from his pocket and writing as he talked. ‘B’ wasn’t part of the key, so that will stand for the next letter, ‘g’; ‘c’ is ‘h’; ‘d’ is ‘i’; ‘e’ is ‘j’; ‘f’ is ‘k’; ‘g’ is ‘l’; ‘h’ is ‘m’; ‘i’ was used in the key, so we would move on to ‘j,’ which would be ‘n’; ‘k’ is ‘o’; ‘l’ is ‘p’; ‘m’ is ‘q’; ‘n’ is ‘r’; ‘o’ is ‘s’; ‘p’ is ‘t’; ‘q’ is ‘u’; ‘r’ was used, and so was ‘s.’ In fact ’s’ was used twice.  That moves us to ‘t,’ which would be ‘v’; ‘u’ was used, so ‘v’ would be ‘w’; ‘w’ is ‘x’; and ‘x’ is ‘y’; and ‘y’ is ‘z.’
Now, because ‘s’ was used for two letters, so ‘z’ wasn’t used at all, we can assume your puzzler used ‘z’ as a null. That means he could just throw a ‘z’ in as a place filler wherever he wished. For instance, to fill out a line; or just to throw people off.
“The likelihood of ‘z’ being used as a null is tipped by its being used for the final two characters of the third puzzle. That suggests that the puzzler employed all the characters in his key, even when duplicated. That produces nulls. It is common practice with short puzzles.”
“Dad, you’re amazing,” Kate said.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Kitty. We don’t know if this will work. To this point this is still mere conjecture—what we came up with is just one way of looking at it,” Jack said, even though he already saw that the third line ended with two ‘z’s’, which strongly suggested he was on to something.
 “Take a look at the third line. It looks like it might have two nulls at the end. If we’re right, then this guy of yours was no genius. That would have been too simple. ... Anyway, let’s plug it in and see if it works.”
Kate slid her chair around a little so she could look over her father’s shoulder.
“Here we go,” Jack said, as he applied his potential solution to the puzzle. ‘Hawaii to China in fifty.’ That’s it, for the third line. But you can be sure that the other three lines employ different keywords. We just got lucky with that one line.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Dad. You figured it out that fast? Our best computer guys spent days on it without any success. … But they were using code-cracking software. And you say that approach might not work so well for a puzzle like this. That’s amazing. But if that’s right, ‘Hawaii to China in fifty,’ what would it mean?” Kate asked. “‘Hawaii to China in fifty’ sounds like a fast plane.”
“Beats me, but I doubt that this guy was planning a vacation—and certainly not to Beijing.” Jack said, shrugging his shoulders, and chuckling slightly. “This thing sounds to me like something for the FBI. This was definitely not a gang related killing. How did you get this case?”
“Do you think you can do anything with the other three lines?” Kate asked, disregarding her father’s last question.
“I’m gonna need some time with this. Can I take it with me?” Jack asked.
“Sure—not a problem.” Kate replied, folding it up, she tucked it back into the envelope and handed it to her father.
“Kate,” a man said as he walked up to the table where she and her father were sitting. “Is that really you?”
Kate’s head snapped around. The voice was somewhat familiar, but she could not place it.
“The academy,” he said. “What’s it been, ten or twelve years? I’m Kurt, Kurt Jefferies. Don’t you remember me?”
“Yes, sure I do. How are you doing? You left the force, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Jefferies said. “The private sector pays better.”
“Private sector—exactly what does that mean?” Kate asked.
Jack observed that the man was sizing him up more than should be expected, particularly when there was a beautiful woman present.
“I do investigations for some attorneys. You know, following rich cheating husbands around. It’s nasty work, but it pays well. And you, you’re still with the department?”
“I am. I’m a homicide detective,” Kate replied, just a little uncomfortable about being questioned.
The man then turned to Jack, and asked. “Do you work with Kate?”
“Kate’s my daughter. We’re just enjoying a cup of espresso.”
Jack now was growing a little tense about the encounter—he was fairly certain that it did not happen by chance. And, he was not pleased to be sitting down with this questionable stranger standing over him.
Jack examined the man closely to be sure that he had not seen this Jefferies fellow before. Convinced that he had not, Jack rose to his feet and squared himself off in front of the visitor. As he stood, he again opened the knife inside his pocket, and made certain that he would be able to wield it quickly and effectively should he need to. “We were just leaving, Mr. Jefferies, hope you will excuse us,” Jack said, not taking his eyes off the man standing beside his daughter.
Kate took the cue from her father, and arose from her chair as well.
“Good to see you, Kurt, but we really have to be going,” Kate said, pushing her chair under the table.
“Sure, it was good to see you again too. Can’t imagine bumping into you like this,” Jefferies said, taking half a step backwards, as he sensed his space was about to be violated by Jack.
“And you,” Jefferies said, reaching out to shake hands with Jack, “it was nice meeting you.” Jefferies had observed the Jack was gripping something in his right hand, and he wanted to see if Jack would release it to shake his hand.
But Jack was not ready to take his hand off the knife in his pocket, so he acted as though he did not see the gesture. Feigning indigestion, Jack placed his left hand over his stomach, and said, “Kate, that espresso did not set well with me. How about you? Don’t you think it was a little bitter?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” she said, playing along with her dad. “It is Christmas, after all. Business is slow and maybe it sat out too long.”
“That’s probably the case,” Jack replied, steering his chair with his left hand, as he pushed it under the table with his foot. He still had not acknowledged Jefferies’ gesture. Then, noticing that the stranger had ceased trying to shake his hand, Jack looked over at him, and said, “You will excuse us?”
“Sure, it was good to meet you,” Jefferies said. “What did you say your name was?”
“Kate’s Dad,” Jack said, flashing an icy stare, causing Jefferies to take a full step back. “I’m Kate’s Dad.”
“Now, if you will excuse us,” Jack said, brushing the man back with his right elbow, and taking his daughter’s arm in his left hand. “Have a good day,” Jack added as he walked away with his daughter, still not taking his hand off the opened combat knife in his pocket.
“What was that all about?” Jack asked his daughter, as they walked away. “That guy was no private dick. He was built like a rock. When I brushed against him, he did not budge. And I don’t think that husband chasers pack Glock 20s, at least not in Manhattan.
The 10mm round is more powerful than either the .45 ACP or the .357 Magnum. While the 10mm handguns were initially regarded by law enforcement as a superlative size for their application, beginning in the late 1980s it was generally replaced by the smaller .40 S&W cartridge for police use.
The reason the smaller firearm won out over the 10mm had to do with the type of officers being recruited at that time. Because the 10mm round was considerably longer than both the 9mm and the .40 S&W, it caused the handgrip of the firearm that fired it also to be larger. That because the magazine holding the rounds had to fit inside it.
Beginning in the mid to late 1980s, a concerted effort to recruit more women into law enforcement led agencies to abandon the 10mm in favor of the .40 S&W, and to the even smaller 9mm. Both of these semi-automatic handguns had measurably smaller handgrips, and also a more manageable recoil.
However, the raw knockdown power of the 10mm won the hearts of private professionals, such as Jack Handler. And the Austrian made Glock 20 10mm was deemed the best. Not only was it reliable and accurate, it reputedly absorbed and distributed the recoil better than other 10mm handguns.
When Jack observed the bulge of a firearm, he could determine whether it was a semi-auto or a revolver on the basis of its shape and dimension. And if it was a semi-auto, he could further tell if it was a 9mm, .40 S&W, or a 10mm. He knew this on the basis of the lump caused by the size of its handgrip.
Of course, it was always possible that a large semi-auto could have been a .45 APC, but the odds were great that a professional would be not carrying that piece.
So, if it was a 10mm, Jack thought it a safe assumption that Jefferies’ weapon of choice would be the Glock 20.
“Who do you think he really was? … And what’s this about the espresso setting out too long?”
“You caught that slip up? ... Well, I knew you were ready to go, and I had to say something.
“… But that was weird—the business with Jefferies.” Kate replied. “But I do remember him from the academy. I don’t recall much about him, though, except that he was a little older than the rest of us. I think he had been in the service. Maybe the Marines.”
“That figures. Probably some sort of Special Services,” Jack said. “He’s definitely a formidable dude. And our encounter was not by chance. He sought you out. Must have been tailing one of us.”
Jack wanted to alert his daughter to the danger he sensed. Yet, he did not want to alarm her.
“You, my dear, need to watch your step.” Jack said, carefully choosing his words. “I think you might be in some danger.”

Chapter 8

Chapter 8—Jack worries 

as Kate heads home

6:40 p.m., Thursday, December 25

Jack and his daughter continued walking until they emerged from Penn Station. Jack kept a tight grip on her arm, and an equally tight grip on his knife, as he led her out of the Terminal—east, away from his hotel. For a moment Jack considered telling her about his earlier encounter with Ice Pick Man, but thought better of it. “No need to worry her,” he concluded.
“Where’re we headed, Dad?” Kate asked, as they walked along.
Jack was so intensely preoccupied with their surroundings that he failed to respond to her.
As the two of them approached Sixth Avenue and Broadway, Handler pulled his daughter off the sidewalk and into a small delivery alcove off 34th Street. The smell of urine was powerful, suggesting that it was a favorite spot for the homeless at night. Kate scrunched up her face, placing her forefinger under her nose. “Dad, this stinks,” she complained.
“I know, but we need to make some plans. We’ll have no competition for this spot, at least not until later.”
Jack took a long and careful look around, making sure that they had not been followed. “Kate, I’ll take a closer look at that puzzle tonight. I don’t have business until tomorrow. I’ll call you, and maybe we can get together then.  Do you have plans for lunch, or perhaps dinner?”
“Only you, Dad. I’d love to spend as much time with you as possible,” she said. “Just tell me what works.”
“That sounds good,” Jack said. “But you had better watch your back. I do not trust that Jefferies. And we do not have any idea who he works for, or who else might be involved. You can be sure that he is not working alone.”
“What do you suggest?” she asked.
“Take a cab home,” Jack said.
“All the way to the Island?” she asked.
“All the way to your door. I’ll hail it for you,” Jack said, signaling his daughter to wait while he went out on the street. He walked right out in front of the first cab, and forced the driver to stop.
“Get the hell out of my way, you ignorant bastard!” The driver yelled at him, after he had opened his window.
Jack flashed two one hundred dollar bills, and walked over to talk to the mouthy driver.
“My daughter needs to go to Long Island, will this cover it?”
“Yeah, I think it might.”
Jack signaled his daughter to get in the cab, and he walked around to the rear passenger door to open it for her. Before she got in, he gave her a hug, and kissed her on the top of her head.
“Love ya, Dad,” she said, getting into the cab.
“Love ya back, Kitten,” Handler said, closing the door after her.
He then signaled the driver to lower the front passenger window, as he reached in and handed the driver the money. “You take good care of this woman,” he said, with his usual level of intimidation.
“I will take good care of her,” the driver said, checking out the bills to be sure they were not counterfeit. “You can be sure, I’ll take very good care of her.”
Jack waved to his daughter as she rode east on 34th. She then turned and gestured through the rear window for him to give her a phone call. He smiled broadly, and waved one last time.
Still blocking one lane of traffic, Jack remained in the street, taking care to make sure no one was following his daughter’s cab. Finally one of the cars he was hindering started honking at him. Not acknowledging the irritation, he remained in place for another few seconds, and then casually walked over to the curb. He pretended he did not hear one cab driver who had rolled down the front passenger window to share his thoughts with Jack. “What’s wrong with you, Buddy, you got some kinda death wish? Stand in front of me a little longer and I’ll make it come true. You stupid fool.”
Smiling slightly, but not looking in the direction of traffic, Jack checked his watch, and headed back to his hotel. He had the evening free, and he was anxious to tackle Kate’s puzzle. “Perhaps,” he thought, “I can help her get to the bottom of this case before someone else gets hurt.”

Chapter 9

Chapter 9—Jack attacks Kate’s puzzle

7:10 p.m., Sunday, December 25

The trek back to the hotel took less than ten minutes. As he walked, he scrutinized every aspect of his surroundings. In particular, he kept an eye out for the fellow he had run into earlier—Ice Pick Man. And for Jefferies.
 During that short time he re-visited his thoughts about procuring a handgun for protection, instead of the knife. But he decided against it. He was, after all, in the city to do a job. It would be a mistake to jeopardize the whole project for something he should be able to deal with without gambling on an illegal weapon. Of course, he realized that he could get busted for the knife he did carry. New York law often interprets that if a knife looks like a weapon—it’s a weapon. But Jack felt more comfortable justifying his possessing a folding knife, than trying to explain a loaded, illegal firearm.
Besides, a gun would have served no purpose earlier, because even had he been carrying a piece, he would not have brandished it in the lobby of a hotel. He simply had to be more careful.
He did consider that a walking stick might suit the situation well. He always traveled with one—just in case. But, he would worry about that later.
As he approached his room, he inserted his card, and tested his magnetic lock. The door would not budge. That meant that the lock was operating properly. He then employed his remote to deactivate it. He could feel the lock release the door. Once inside, he plugged the adapter in, to recharge the battery. He then re-engaged the magnetic lock.
Twisting off the top of a bottle of water he had purchased in the lobby when he checked in, he immediately tackled the puzzle Kate had given him. While he did feel the need to solve the puzzles—as it might help keep Kate safe—he actually considered the challenge quite enjoyable.
The first thing he did was to copy the entire code text, starting with the third line. Even though he had downplayed the initial success, he was pretty certain that he had solved it correctly. And, just as he had suspected, he quickly became certain that each line did have its own key;. While “RUSSIA” worked for the third line, he could see immediately that it did not help for the other three. Given the great likelihood that he had line three right, he started out with that line, followed by its plaintext solution. He wrote:

Line 3:  CRVR DDPKS CDJR DJADA PXZZ = Hawaii to China in fifty (Key: RUSSIA).

He then copied the other three lines, each on a separate sheet of paper.

Line 1: SGCN JNRE SDHC SDCJ MHVW=

Line 2: CECP DCQJ MRPP NCNG TNTQW =

Line 4: FQOPO PJKA TFGJS=

“Let’s see what we can do with these,” he muttered aloud. When Jack was by himself (which seemed to be most of the time), he tended to utilize self-talk to help him think—and generally employed the first person plural when doing it. “What was this poor sucker trying to tell us before he ran into that ice pick? Whatever it was, it got him killed. Let’s see if I can think like him for a while.”
“Okay, the guy worked for the State Department—in Russian and Chinese relations. And the first key was ‘Russia.’ One of the other keys could be ‘China,’ except that might be too short. Wouldn’t make a good key. Could be ‘China something.’ … Maybe ‘Chinatown’? Could it really be that simple?”
Initially Jack doubted himself, but then he recalled just how simple the keyword was for the third line. So, he attacked the ciphertext using “Chinatown” as the key.
He applied this potential keyword to line one. At first he tried it starting from the left. When that yielded nothing, he tried working from the right. Still nothing. So, he moved to the second line.
Immediately he found the name of another state beginning to appear: “ALAS ...”
“That looks like ALASKA … very interesting.”
Continuing with “Chinatown” as the key, he developed the plaintext for the rest of the second line: “ALASKA TO RUSSIA IN FIFTY.”
“So, we’ve got ‘Hawaii to China in fifty,’ and ‘Alaska to Russia in fifty.’ What could that mean?” he wondered aloud. “That can have nothing to do with fast planes,” he chuckled, remembering what his daughter had said. “You can practically drive a golf ball from Alaska to Russia. Has to have another meaning. And it has to be important—important enough to get a man killed. Hell, important enough to almost get me killed.”
Not anticipating any success using the new keyword on the remaining lines, Jack still tried plugging it in—with, of course, the anticipated failure.
He then tried to come up with other keywords. For the next hour he applied every possibility that came to mind. With such short cryptograms, he knew that the keyword would not be terribly long, nor would it be functional if it were too short.
Suddenly he had another thought. “I wonder what the original code was written on?” he asked himself, rapidly calling Kate’s number.
“Kitten, I have a quick question for you. Please do not go into detail, or ask me questions. Okay?”
“Sure, Dad.”
“I’m looking for short answers—one word, if possible. Okay?”
“Got ya.”
Jack carefully chose the correct words to make his request. “What was the original written on?”
Kate thought for just a moment, also carefully weighing her words. “On the back of a ticket for a Knicks-Lakers game—one of those computer printouts.  I know that’s more than one word, but it’s the best I could do. Do you think that is important?”
“Don’t know. But your info is wonderful—just perfect,” Jack replied. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow, and we’ll try to get together. Check your schedule. I’m going to be tied up for a while, but will have most of the day and evening free. Just don’t know for sure right now exactly when I’ll be available. Talk to you tomorrow?”
“Sounds good, talk to you later.”
“Got a call coming in, love ya,” Jack said to his daughter, as he received his other call.
“Reg. How are you?” Jack said.
“ … Sure, what time tomorrow?”
“ … How about ten? … No, let’s avoid meeting there. How about Men’s Neckties, in Macy’s? We’ll figure something out from there. … That works? … Great, see you then.”
Jack directed his attention back to the puzzle. Suddenly he realized the significance of the two deciphered lines.
“Oh my God!” Jack exclaimed, grabbing his worksheets. “Hawaii to China in fifty—Alaska to Russia in fifty. We are selling those states! We are selling Hawaii to China, possession to be taken fully in fifty years. And virtually the same thing with Alaska, except we are selling Alaska to Russia—same terms. That’s how the President intends to finance all this deficit spending. Talk about a reverse mortgage! He has worked out a deal with those two countries. They will fund our notes, with the guarantee of receiving those two states in return. Oh my God, Kate, you are in grave danger!”
Jack grabbed his cell, and quickly dialed his daughter. “Kate!”
“Just a minute Dad, someone’s at the door,” Kate said, answering her father’s call and setting the phone down in the same motion.
“Kate! Kate! Don’t go to the door!” Jack implored her. But it was too late. Jack could hear a scuffle, and a muffled scream.
Then all went silent.

Chapter 10

Chapter 10—Kate’s abduction

8:35 p.m., Sunday, December 25

Jack kept his ear to his phone.  When he finally heard at least two men talking, he began to shout: “Kate! Kate! Can you hear me?”
He strained to monitor the muffled sounds of the men, while they seemed to be ransacking Kate’s apartment.
“Kate!” he shouted once more.
Jack then heard one of the men pick up Kate’s cell phone. “Put my daughter on, right now,” Jack said.
There was no response, but Jack could hear a man breathing.
“Do you hear me, you sonofabi**h. I want to talk to my daughter. If you know what you’re doing, you’ll put her on this phone.”
The man who had picked up Kate’s phone responded to Jack. “You’re Kate’s father—right?”
“You’re damn right I am. You put her on that phone right now,” Jack commanded.
“You’re Jack Handler. We’ll be talking to you, and soon,” the man said.
“Look, you, whoever you are, I …”
“You are in no position to be giving orders,” the man calmly interrupted. “If you ever want to see your daughter alive. In fact, if you even want to be able to recognize her body, you listen to me right now, and do exactly what I say. Do you understand me?”
“Let me explain something to you. Obviously you know who I am. Then you must also know what I’m capable of. You release my daughter right now, unharmed. Or I will hunt you down and kill you. I’ll kill everyone close to you. I’ll find your mother, if she is still alive, and I will torture her to death. God forbid you have a wife or children, but if you do I will make them suffer untold agonies. If anything, if even a hair on my daughter’s head, is harmed …”
“You look,” the man said. “Your daughter is still alive, for right now. And we haven’t hurt her, yet. You should be happy about that. But, if we don’t get everything we are after, and I mean everything, I will personally kill her. Then I will come after you, and I will kill you. Now, the only thing you can do is wait for my call. I will use your daughter’s phone. I will tell you where to go and what to do. And you will obey.”
With that, the man unceremoniously hung up. Jack tried to call the number back, but it was obvious to him that the man who held his daughter had popped the battery out of her cell phone to prevent Jack from calling back, or trying to trace the cell.
Jack had never felt so helpless. “I should have warned her. I knew the man with the ice pick was somehow connected with her victim. Why didn’t I warn her when I had the chance?” That was all the second guessing Jack would allow himself.
Jack was used to being in total control. The events of the past couple hours took him out of his element. Now he had to find a way to go proactive—to get back on top of the situation. He had to develop a plan to get his daughter back. But he had no idea who held her, nor could he begin to guess where. He sat down on the small overstuffed chair, leaned his head back, and stared at the ceiling. Immediately his eyes went out of focus. He then closed them, and entered deeply into thought.
“I’m dealing with an organization—could be private—more than likely it has political connections. Perhaps not. Perhaps strictly money. Possibly both. But I do think that it is closely tied to the commuter train murder of that State Department guy, and to this puzzle.”
Jack opened his eyes, leaned forward and scooped up the sheets of paper he had been working on. “Hawaii to China in fifty, and Alaska to Russia in fifty,” he read aloud. “Political. The guys who have my daughter are political operatives. CIA, Mossad, Russian. I don’t know. Can’t even rule out an MI6 connection. They want this puzzle. She is probably safe until they get this. Kate’s friend at the coffee shop—he is probably involved, in some way. Jeff, Jefferies—Kurt Jefferies.”
For a short moment he considered calling one of his contacts in the FBI. He looked down at his cell for a moment, and then he thought better of it. “This thing goes much too deep for that. Who knows who can be trusted?”
Jack did have one friend in New York whom he knew he could always count on—Reginald. So he dialed him.
“Reg, it’s me again. Change of plan. I have to see you tonight. Can you come over here? … I’m at the New York State Regency. Call me when you get close, and I’ll meet you in the lobby. … Yes, it is an emergency. Thanks. … Oh, and grab us some coffee—this could be a long night. … See you in a few.”
Jack began writing down in earnest all he knew regarding the puzzles.

Line 1: SGCN JNRE SDHC SDCJ MHVW=
Line 2: CECP DCQJ MRPP NCNG TNTQW= Alaska to Russia in fifty (Key: CHINATOWN).
Line 3:  CRVR DDPKS CDJR DJADA PXZZ = Hawaii to China in fifty (Key: RUSSIA).
Line 4: FQOPO PJKA TFGJS=

Jack determined that he was pretty sure he had lines two and three correctly deciphered. At any rate, he was sufficiently confident that there was nothing to be gained by re-working them any more. So he concentrated his energies on lines one and four.
However, the longer he stared at those two lines, the more convinced he was that he needed keys to decipher them. And he was at a loss as to where to look for them.

Chapter 11

Chapter 11—Reginald has a clue

9:40 p.m., Sunday, December 25

Once he had written down all that he knew about the puzzles, Jack sat back in his chair, and stared straight ahead.  Even though Kate’s abductor did not articulate it, Jack could not help but think that the puzzles had something significant to do with Kate’s current situation. He then stood to his feet, and began pacing around his tiny room. A cloud of helpless frustration had settled over him, and he sensed his need to shake it off.
“I’ve got to get to the bottom of those remaining lines. … I’ve got to decipher them. But what can I do without the keyword, … or keywords?”
Even though he had concluded that the only proactive thing he could do right now would be to crack the remaining two lines of ciphertext, he was at a loss as to how to move forward with it. Something significant was missing. He needed more information. What exactly that was, he didn’t know.
He then checked the battery and reception on his cell to be certain that he would be able to take a call from Kate’s abductors.
Confident that his cell was functioning properly, he sat back down and continued to scrutinize the remaining two lines of the puzzle. “I could sure use a cup of coffee,” he muttered.
Half an hour later Jack’s phone rang. He looked at the calling number to see if was from his daughter’s phone. Immediately he recognized that it was Reginald calling him.
“I’ll be at your hotel in ten,” Reginald said.
“Thanks,” Jack replied. “I’ll meet you in the lobby. … And you did remember the coffee, right?”
Jack knew that he would have to escort Reginald past hotel security to the elevators, so he unplugged the charger from his door lock, and tested it again to be certain it was functioning properly. Confident he would be able to get back in, he locked up his room, and headed down to meet Reginald. He slid his right hand into his jacket pocket, and tightly gripped his knife.
“This is a bunch of bull,” He said out loud, as he stood alone in an elevator. Jack was not used to being on the defensive. And he did not like his dependence on a combat knife.
He had timed it perfectly. Just as he reached the lobby, his friend appeared through the revolving door.
“Hey, Buddy,” Jack said, reaching out to shake Reginald’s hand. “Thanks for coming so quickly. I’ll explain what it’s all about when we get up to my room.” He noticed that his friend was carrying a brown paper bag, just the right size for two large coffees.
“Good to see you too,” Reginald replied, as the two men headed toward the elevator. Jack did not want to waste time, but he was unable to discuss the matter with his friend on the elevator, because an elderly couple had joined them. When the elevator reached Jack’s floor, they exchanged pleasantries with the strangers, got off the elevator, and continued on to Jack’s room.
Just as they approached the door, Jack hit his remote, unlocking the mag lock.
“What’s that all about?” Reginald inquired.
“Just a lock I put on my door when I’m traveling. That way I know my room’s secure.”
As the two old friends closed and secured the door behind them, Reginald inquired:  “Jack, is everything okay?”
“No, far from it,” Jack answered. “Kate’s been kidnapped.”
“What are you talking about?” Reginald asked in unbelief.
Looking down at his watch, Jack replied. “I was on the phone with her less than an hour ago—maybe forty five minutes. I heard two or more men enter her apartment, and abduct her. I talked to one of them.”
“ That’s unbelievable. Do you know who it is that has her, and what they are after? Have they made any demands?”
“Not yet. But I sense that they will not harm her, at least not right now,” Jack said.
“Okay, Reg,” Jack said. “I want you to listen carefully. This is what I know. See if you can think of anything I might be missing. First of all, when I was about to leave the hotel earlier this evening, on my way to meet Kate, a young muscular fellow approached me from behind. With bad intentions. I had a feeling, so I turned to check him out. And it was this guy. Reg, you’re not gonna believe this. He had pulled an ice pick and was about to stick the business end of it through my heart. I side stepped him, and he kept going.”
“An ice pick you say?” Reginald said. “That is a bit unusual.”
“That’s what I thought,” Jack responded. “But when I met up with Kate, right after that, she told me about a murder at a commuter train station, and the weapon used was an ice pick. I suspect it might have been the same fellow that I encountered in the hotel. Perhaps not, but the ice pick does make it plausible.”
Reginald’s countenance abruptly turned very somber. “I’ve got to tell you right off the top,” he said, “the fellow who got hit in the tunnel sounds like a guy who was working with me, Jack. He had information for me that he thought critical. He worked at the State Department. That’s what I was hinting at earlier, when I called you while you were still in Chicago.”
“Oh yeah? Working for you? Well, Kate’s got that case, and she was deeply troubled about it,” Jack said.
“I hate to say it, but your daughter is in over her head, Jack,” Reginald said. “This is a matter of national security. It goes all the way to the top. Those are very treacherous men she’s dealing with.”
“What do you mean by ‘all the way to the top?’ … the top of what?” Jack asked.
“I am not sure what my man had for me, but I’ve never heard him so agitated.” Reginald said.
“So, when you say this goes to the top, what do you mean? Are you suggesting what I think you are?”
“Yes,” Reginald answered, “this could go all the way to the President.”
Jack paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. “What sort of transmission device did you use to communicate with your contact?”
“It varied,” Reginald said. “But this time we were going to exchange coats at a restaurant. We’ve done that before. He would put his information in the lining of the coat, always encrypted.”
Jack walked over to the bed and retrieved the large envelope into which he had earlier slid the coded messages Kate had given him. Handing them to Reginald, he asked, “do your messages ever look anything like this?”
“Where did you get this?” Reginald asked, flipping the sheet over to see if there was anything on the underside. “This looks very much like the message I was expecting him to give me. … Actually, this a copy. Do you know who has the original? ”
“I got this from Kate,” Jack said. “She did say it was a copy. From what I can tell, it is a cryptogram. … Actually, it is four separate cryptograms.”
“That’s typically how we communicated, all right,” Reginald said. “But it would be very helpful to have the original. Do you know who has it?”
Jack did not immediately respond to the question, instead he pursued the logic of using cryptograms for this purpose. “That’s a bit archaic, don’t you think?” Jack commented. “Why would you use something so analog in this digital age?”
“It’s safer,” Reginald replied. “Almost any standard encryption can be cracked if you have the right software, or if you rip off a guy’s laptop. But the cryptograms we use are so short, without the keys they are virtually indecipherable. Take these four lines, for instance, typically I would expect each of them to have a different key.”
“I’m pretty sure I got two of the four,” Jack said. “I plugged ‘Russia’ into one of them, and ‘Chinatown’ into another. I got ‘Hawaii to China in fifty,’ and ‘Alaska to Russia in fifty.’ Does that make any sense to you?”
“Yes it does,” Reginald said. “This is all indirectly related to the business I called you in to help me with.”
“What, exactly, are you saying?” Jack asked.
“Look, Jack, I am really sorry that your daughter is stuck in the middle of this, and I will do anything and everything I can to help you get her out. … But I won’t kid you about it, these guys are very dangerous.”
“Okay, Reg, start talking to me. What the hell is this all about? And what is it these guys are looking for?”
“Well, for starters, I think it safe to say that they want this message,” Reginald said. “I think you might negotiate her release with it. At least, you can use it to get the process moving. How and when are you supposed to talk to them again?”
“They said they would call me, using Kate’s phone,” Jack answered. “But I don’t know when. Explain to me what this message is all about, and why it is so important to these guys. … And who are they? They’re spooks, right? But whose spooks?”
“Mossad. At least I know Mossad is a major player. The Russians are involved as well, but to what extent here, I don’t know. … Take your pick. I’m suspecting the guys you are dealing with are either Mossad or the Russians, you know, the GRU. But my guess is Mossad.”
“Why are they so interested in this State Department stuff?” Jack asked.
“Here’s the deal,” Reginald said. “We have known for some time that there have been high level talks between the President himself, and Russia. Recently we learned that he has been talking with China as well. On the highest level. My friend at the State Department got wind of what the talks were about. That was the gist of this message. Apparently our speculation was correct. From the looks of what you have deciphered already, the President is negotiating the sale of Hawaii and Alaska. We surmised that before. It looks like he is planning to use the sale of those two states to finance the debt.
“He has exhausted all the credit he could, and now they are calling in the chips. The deal he has apparently worked out in both cases is to give the residents of those states fifty years to relocate back in the 48, if they wish to. Fifty years is considered two generations. We’ve heard that he intends to give each person who relocates during the first year one hundred thousand dollars. Otherwise, if they choose to stay beyond a year, there will be no payoff.”
“And that information got your man killed?” Jack asked.
“Sure did. Israel is worried. Even though they have virtually no vested interest in either of those states, they fear that should such a deal be struck, it would cause civil unrest in the US, perhaps even start a revolution. And that could be devastating for them.”
“That’s who’s got my daughter? The Israelis?”
“Could be,” Reginald replied. “Probably is. We’re not totally convinced that’s who hit our operative in the State Department. Because, the crazy thing is, the Russians are now actively involving themselves in this thing, but for different reasons than is Mossad. They do have an iron in this fire, and they are hell bent on making sure this deal happens—that they get Alaska. The natural resources there are worth trillions, plus it would provide them with a base in North America. It is really a sweet deal for them, at any price. I’m sure you know that the Russians have no national debt. So that puts them in a position of strength. They are intent on seeing this deal go through.”
“Who, exactly, are you working for this time?” Jack asked.
“Freelancing,” Reginald replied. “You know how that goes.”
“Freelancing. But for who?”
Reginald paused a moment before answering. “Ostensibly I’m working with a group of concerned parties—people both you and I have worked with before.”
“And who might they be?”
“Allison is heading it up,” Reginald answered. “There are three others, and you know some of them … maybe all of them.”
“Allison is in charge? What is the ultimate goal of this group?” Jack asked. He felt comfortable grilling his friend about this because it had already been established that Reginald had called him in to work with them.
“The five us have been meeting for a couple of weeks,” Reginald replied. “Al put the group together to lay the groundwork for her presidency.”
“Is Bob part of this group?”
“No, Al did not think he should be a part of it.”
“That scares me more than a little,” Jack said. “Bob was always the glue that held everything together.”
“I know what you mean,” Reginald agreed, “but Al has done a good job, so far. That having been said, I can’t help but agree with you that I would be a lot more comfortable if Bob were running the show. He invokes an aura of fear that Al is not capable of. I suspect that’s what you mean by ‘glue’.”
“I’m going to need to know who the other parties are, in your little group, and what their roles are; but right now I’m interested in what you and your buddies are talking about, what decisions have been made. And what sort of work has been contemplated that would elicit so violent a reaction by Mossad, or the Russians. Talk to me about that, Reg, I need to understand what is going on here. … My daughter’s life is at stake.”
“Initially we started out reviewing what our options might be heading into the general election. Al was concerned that even though she might successfully challenge Butler in the primary, she would likely lose in the general—that, given this president’s growing unpopularity and the state of the economy. … And if Butler were to consummate a deal for the sale of even one of the states, democrats would be lucky if their own families voted for them.
“We discussed every possible tactic, but could not find one that provided a scenario where she would likely win. In fact, one of our major concerns was that Butler would invoke executive powers, and put off the election altogether. Given his penchant for power, it seems a real possibility.”
“I’ve heard that suggested before,” Jack said, “but coming from the right. I’ve not heard any on the left talking like that—not until just now.”
“And you won’t. But, trust me, it’s in the back of everyone’s mind. With this president, the unthinkable has become plausible.”
“Okay, Reg, given that scenario, what did you guys come up with as a viable option?” Jack asked, already sensing what he was about to hear. “Did you get that far?”
“I’m sure you’ve got this all figured out, right?” Reginald asked, not wanting to mouth the words.
“Maybe,” Jack said, “but I want to hear the words come from your mouth.”
“It was the consensus of the group,” Reginald said, “that …” He hesitated for a moment, obviously looking for the right way to articulate it. “We decided that there was not a way for Al to win against the Republicans,” Reginald finally said. “She possibly could wrest the nomination away from Butler, if there were actually to be a convention and a nomination. But, when it came to the general election, she would lose. And we would lose even more seats in both the House and the Senate.”
“You’re skirting the question,” Jack said. “What did you guys decide to do about it?”
“It was decided,” Reginald said, again hesitating, “that the only way to deal with this would be to see this president leave office before the end of his term. That having been accomplished, he would be replaced by the VP, who would appoint Al to take his place, as VP.
“We agreed that John was too old to want to run for a full term. So, of course, Al would run. And she would have a great chance to win.
“The critical factor here would be to convince the country that the right was to blame for Butler’s departure. The backlash would carry Al into office, and quite possibly we would make sizeable gains in the House and Senate on her coattails. It was our only viable solution. Or so the group concluded.”
“That’s what I thought you were going to say,” Jack responded. “Of course, you know just how insane this whole thing is, don’t you? How the hell could you possibly think I would ever agree to something this nuts? The whole thing is insane. Now you’ve got my daughter kidnapped.”
Jack paused for a moment. He looked over at Reginald, who now sat silently, not able to make eye contact with his old friend.
“Reg, you know me better than any other human being on earth knows me,” Jack said, his voice had assumed a very somber tone. “You fully understand what I’m capable of. … I swear to God, if I did not need you to get my daughter back, I just might kill you on the spot. How could you ever think I would be willing to help with something this stupid? What were you thinking?”
“Look, Jack,” Reginald said, now looking directly into Jack’s eyes, “I had no idea that your daughter would be involved in this. I am truly sorry for that. And I will help you get her back. Then, if you still feel you need to, go ahead and kill me. This thing has got so out of hand, the way things are going, I’m a dead man anyway. And I mean that. I would rather have a friend put a bullet in my brain, than suffer the indignities of a trial.”
“Make me feel better about this,” Jack commanded. “You are my friend, but I am not liking what you have been telling me. What am I missing?”
“Jack, I called you in because you are the only person I trust. I would trust my life, and the life of my family, in your hands. … I am looking for a way out of this, and I figured you would be the only person who could help me pull it off. There is just no way in hell that I could allow this assassination to take place. I knew something had to be done. It could mean the end of the Free World. I do not mean to sound melodramatic, but it is that serious. I don’t think the others in the group appreciate the gravity of what they are planning—what we are planning. As a member of the group, I’m virtually helpless. That’s why I called you in. If I buck the consensus, I’m dead. And this lunacy moves ahead. I’m trying to find an acceptable way out of this.”
“Damn it, Reg, you know I’m not a politically motivated person. You know that. Why would you ever drag me into something like this?”
“Jack, if you can help me here, there’s several million in it for you. You name your price.” Reginald said. “I know that money means nothing to you in light of your daughter’s kidnapping. But once we get her back, you help me pull this off, you will be set for the rest of your life. No more penny-ante stuff. … We just might be able to save the country, and get rich at the same time.”
Reginald paused for a moment, and then continued. “Jack, I am truly sorry that your daughter got dragged into it. I would never have put Kate in harm’s way, any more than I would have done it to my own daughter. But this whole thing is still salvageable, if we work together, like we have before.”
“Forget the money, I need to get my daughter back.” Jack said. “You help me get her back, unharmed, I might be willing to help you. But she comes first.”
Just then, Jack’s phone rang. He looked down at it, and then back up at Reginald. “It’s them.”