Nothing else can hurt this calloused retired Chicago homicide detective (or so he thinks), not after he lost his beautiful young Beth to bullets meant for him nearly 30 years ago. But when Jack's cell phone vibrates at 5:30 a.m. on Christmas morning, little could he predict the challenges that lurked.
Kate, Jack's daughter (herself a homicide detective), enlists his help on a murder case she is working in New York. The intrigue compounds when he learns her case is intricately entwined with a plot to assassinate a sitting President, and that a former First Lady is one of the conspirators.
But the situation only gets worse with Jack's involvement, as it leads a group of foreign agents to kidnap Kate in order to coerce Jack's bidding. He must then balance his focus between rescuing his daughter, and preventing the assassination.
If that is not complicated enough, the conspirators had contracted Jack for the hit.
The story unfolds on the streets of New York City, with visits to Upstate New York, DC and Chicago.
This is the latest book by Mike Carrier. Up until March, 2012, Mike has run a private security firm he founded over 30 year ago.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
Monday, October 31, 2011
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
“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
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.
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