by D S Kane
Ann could see her image in the revolving door; dripping red stains danced on her white sweater as her reflection moved on the door panes. She could feel wet splotches sticky against her skin. She touched her face and realized she was covered with the man’s blood and bits of his flesh, dripping down her cheek. She felt a wave of nausea. “Daddy, what’s happening?”
“I think a sniper. But was the sniper after that man or us?” Lee turned and looked at JD. “What should we do?”
JD looked busy scanning the space between the courthouse doors and their hiding spot behind the pillar. “Run after me. Fast.” He sprinted, gripping Ann’s hand, the sixteen feet to the revolving door, thrust her in, and stood outside the door, offering cover as she pushed through into the courthouse lobby. No shots.
Lee followed through the door behind her. He looked at the crimson mess covering Ann’s outfit and face. “Let’s get you to a restroom and give you a chance to clean up.” Lee found a restroom sign dead ahead and pointed at it. “This way.”
Ann vanished through the restroom door while the two men stood watch outside. She looked in the mirror. The white angora sweater had a high neck, and the front of it now showed a river of red down its center. What could she do with this? She carefully took off her sweater and dropped it into a sink, then washed her face and hands in another. She sobbed as she dried her face, thinking how—just one year ago—she had watched as her brother was murdered by the man who’d raped her in the tunnels north of Grand Central Station. She thought, you can take a homeless girl from the tunnels but you can’t take the history from the girl. Ann felt a rush of sadness, and more tears fell. She pulled the soaking sweater from the sink and squeezed it until it was merely damp. Ann put on the pink sweater and exited the restroom, returning to Lee.
JD removed his sports jacket and handed it to her. “Wear this over the sweater.”
* * *
Seconds after squeezing the trigger, Sharon Marconi watched a middle-aged man break from the group surrounding Ann and sprint across the street, towards her hiding spot on the roof of Durgan Park. Damn! She ripped apart her sniper rifle and packed it and its scope into its oversize case. Rising from the floor, she dusted the front of her pants and sweater, and trotted through the door, into the building.
Her expression showed her frustration. Killed the wrong person. Shit. It’s been way too long since I’ve done this. She walked down the hallway to the fire stairs, and pounded down the staircase. Damn Louis for getting his ass killed.
She reached the basement where she’d parked her car. As she drove onto the street she could see the police cars, blue and yellow, like angry hornets from a disturbed nest, marking off the crime scene. Fuck. If that little girl realizes she’s my target, killing her will get harder. Fast. As she sped away from the area, she remembered the man who’d run toward the building she’d used as her perch, looking for her. Must be one of her bodyguards. He’ll be trouble.
* * *
Cassie carefully pulled the gauzy bit of veil over her face. She slowly shook her head to let the fabrics fall into place. She couldn’t ignore the pain cascading through her face. In defiance, she stood as straight as she could. The seamstress moved in close and plucked up some of the cloth at her shoulder, then took a straight pin from her mouth and pinned it.
Cassie looked in the mirror at the white material pinned to her. A tidal flood of emotions washed through her and she was forced to sit while she wiped the tears on her cheeks. Yes, she’d dreamed of this. But the closest thing to the wedding dress she’d been clothed in lately was combat clothing. As a result, she felt more comfortable in olive drabs and a Kevlar vest than a formal white gown. Her eyes fell to the floor where the train of the gown stared expectantly back at her.
The seamstress smiled discreetly, ignoring her client’s tears. “I think that’ll do for today. I can be back later this week with more samples. Would that work for you?”
Cassie bounced back to the reality of this moment. “Sure. Let’s set the day and time. How about Wednesday at 2 p.m.?”
The seamstress nodded and recorded the appointment in her cell. “Perfect. See you then.”
Cassie nodded. Her cellphone hummed. She scanned its screen and answered the call. “Lee! How are you and Ann doing?”
“Uh, there’s been a complication. Someone was murdered on the courthouse steps right in front of Ann as we were on our way in. A sniper from across the street. The poor man who got hit was so close that Ann got the bloody blowback from his head as it exploded. Coated her sweater. The judge had to empty the courtroom. You can imagine. She’s not taking this well.”
“Oh, shit. Is this related to her inquest?”
“Don’t yet know, but you’ve trained me to expect the worst.”
“Right. I’ll send you the three other bodyguards. Think that’ll be enough?”
“Overkill. Don’t need any more and you still do. I’ll let you know everything as it happens and we can both figure this out. Okay?”
“Uh, okay. Actually, no. Not okay. I’m sending Shimon and Ari. Expect them at the hotel by dinner time.”
“Cassie, no need to panic.”
“I’m not panicking. You’re just getting a bit more help. Don’t argue. And call me back when you have news. Let me talk to Ann.”
The teen seemed to be fearless when they briefly spoke. Cassie was sure it was an act but thought better than to ask. Immediately after hanging up, she called her bodyguards and told them to pack and travel to Boston.
She tried controlling her emotions, to no avail. Ann was the likely target. Like Cassie, now they were both hunted. And it was all Cassie’s fault. Exhaustion overtook her and waking nightmares filled the rest of her afternoon.
* * *
Washington Tribune Headline:
Oman Overthrow
Exclusive by April O’Toole to the Tribune
Islamic fundamentalists in Oman completed a violent revolution in the Sultanate of Oman. A small group of leaders from the fallen government escaped into exile with the assistance of the United States. At the Tribune, one of our reporters read an intercepted email between the leaders of the fallen government and The Swiftshadow Group, a mercenary group headquartered in Washington, DC. According to the email, the royal family stated, “Our lives depend on obtaining your help. We are a moderate, peace-loving Islamic family, not supporters of terrorism. Those who have illegitimately usurped our authority are Islamic extremists. Please reply ASAP.” Our reporters, located near the scene of the coup, told us that the ruling family escaped by the barest of margins from the fort serving as their temporary compound. They rode to safety in the middle of the night on an ancient school bus, and were met by US Navy helicopters. The royal family was flown to Turkey and they are currently housed in a refugee camp, guarded by American soldiers.”
CHAPTER 5
December 6, 4:33 p.m.
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC
The outgoing President sat at the Oval Office desk and frowned, his party devastated by leaks in the news stating that he had funded terrorists in an attempt to win the upcoming election for his party. He had been continuously angry since the press started sniffing around. He tapped a pen against the desk. No one visited a lame duck, especially one who’d become a pariah.
Although the news stories claimed that the leaks came from the West Wing, he was sure that it had been Cassandra Sashakovich who leaked the intel she’d been blackmailing him with. And there was more, loads of proof that could have him sent to prison, or even had him executed for treason.
His mind looped uncontrollably through the events that had led him here. Damn that woman. It couldn’t have been worse. He reached for the tumbler on his desk and took a swallow of Scotch.
It wasn’t too late to solve the problem by having her captured and terminated. But there were still things he wanted to do to her. Not just kill her. Something more creative and painful. Maybe have her sent to one of the secret rendition camps
he’d had the agency establish in Tajikistan.
He might end up in prison for treason, but at least he’d have the satisfaction of vengeance.
* * *
Lee and Lester had argued over taking a taxi to the hotel because of the attempted hit on Ann, but nothing had happened. Lee closed and locked the door to Ann’s room at the Copley Plaza Hotel. “We’ll have two more bodyguards here before midnight. Until then, don’t open the door at all except if I knock and tell you to open it.” Ann nodded as she unpacked her suitcase.
She faced him, frowning, and whined. “Dad, why would someone want to kill me?”
Lee’s lips clenched with frustration. “You shot Stepponi. Someone felt his loss. I’ve got William working out who that might be, but it might take a day or so.”
She sat on the bed, her eyes focused within. “Mom didn’t tell me much about the bodyguards. Who are we getting?”
His eyes closed in concentration. “Shimon and Ari. A total of four. And Michael will remain with Cassie,” he said, referring to Michael Drapoff, another of the team of mercenaries serving double duty as the family’s bodyguards.
Her hands dropped to her side, fists clenched. Her voice was tiny-quiet. “She was really calm with me. When you spoke with her, did she go crazy over this?”
He smiled, nodding. “If you’re asking the question then you already know the answer. She’s worrying holes in her brain.” Lee saw it reflected in Ann’s face, too. “No one’s going to hurt you. I won’t let them.” He reached out and drew her to him, hugging her. He examined Ann’s face, her brow wrinkled with worry. “You’re not worried about the trial, are you?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Just a little. I mean, it was either I kill him or he’d kill Mom. He’d started slitting her throat when I shot him. My good luck is that JD was there as a witness. But I’m worried about getting into and out of the courthouse.”
Lee merely nodded with understanding, his face showing the tension they both felt.
* * *
Malcolm Arbuckle III was as formal a man as his name might suggest. A big man made larger by his black robes, he swept imperiously into the courtroom. The bailiff intoned, “Please be seated,” and Lee and Ann sat with their attorney, Hope Fremont. The assistant district attorney was also a woman. Hope handed Lee a piece of paper with the prosecutor’s biography in two paragraphs. Both lawyers had graduated from Harvard Law School. Ann peered over Lee’s shoulder and read along with him.
Arbuckle pointed to Ann. “This is an inquest, not a trial. It’s more informal. Young woman, do you understand why you’re here?”
Reacting to his formal tone, Ann figured Lee’s advice was correct. “Yes. I was defending my mother. She was unconscious. I watched Mr. Stepponi start slitting her throat.”
The judge made a dismissive gesture. “Yes, yes. But you smuggled a plastic gun through the security guards at the hospital. Why? Uh, don’t answer, let the attorneys take us through this. You may step down. Assistant DA Clarkson, proceed.”
Ann was sure this day would be the longest of her life so far.
* * *
Amos Mastoff stood behind the lectern, basking in the glow of unanticipated achievement. He’d donned a Brooks Brothers charcoal-gray pinstripe suit, white shirt with fly-away collar, and a blue silk tie with white and red stripes. His wife Valerie had selected the clothing.
The room was filled with reporters, already raising their hands as he prepared to field a question from a woman at one of the major networks. He thought about his answer but found his mind drifting back over the last month. When the President-elect, Wallace Wilton—with her liberal policies—was assassinated the day after the election, Mastoff, the Vice President-elect, had become the luckiest man on planet Earth.
A broad grin split his face. “Yes. In answer to your question, there will be a broad policy change. Policies of corruption from the previous administration will end. The day I take office, we’ll assign a special prosecutor to investigate charges that my party will make. Treason for my predecessor is not off the table after I move into the White House.”
His wife watched the press conference from their hotel suite. She was still shocked at the speed with which their fortunes had changed. She was as small as he was large. Both were over sixty years old, and it was Mastoff’s senate seat in the Deep South that had brought him to the ticket. His other attribute of value was his contrast to the promised policies of Wilton. He was a Protestant religious fundamentalist from Tupelo, Mississippi. Wilton was a black female Baptist who rarely attended church.
Mastoff pointed into the audience of press corps, taking another question.
A bearded reporter from one of the most influential newspapers asked, “Is it true that you intend to propose a constitutional amendment regarding the country’s religion? Won’t that change how we interact with our allies and our enemies?”
“Yes to both questions. I promise I’ll bring religion to Washington. Our enemies will fear God as they fear me.”
* * *
Gilbert Greenfield dreamed about standing in his house as it burned to the ground. He could hear the fire engines, feel the flames, smell his burning flesh as he scorched to ash. He became conscious and the dream’s sirens turned into his telephone ringing. He propped himself up on one elbow. “Hello?”
“Gil, it’s me.” Greenfield recognized the outgoing President’s voice. He looked at the clock radio. 2:57 a.m. They’d been friends since their days as roommates at Yale.
“Mr. President, how can I be of service?”
“What’s the current status of our last piece of unofficial business?”
“Uh. Mr. President, it’s three in the morning. Can this wait until I get to the office?”
“No. Even using Encryption-Lok, I won’t call your office for this one. And I can’t call from my office. It violates too many laws.”
Greenfield knew the President was correct. Greenfield had served as a fundraiser and supporter of the soon-to-be-former President when he’d announced his campaign. After the first election, Greenfield had started a private intelligence service and the President had contracted nearly half the operations formerly done by the CIA and DIA to Greenfield’s unnamed intelligence service. Through him, Congress had funded development of Encryption-Lok with the demand by Congress that it leave a record on the agency’s servers for each phone call it processed. “What do you want?” he asked the President. But he’d already realized what the man wanted.
“I heard a rumor that Cassandra Sashakovich is still alive, in that house in Chevy Chase. Check it out. Now.” The phone line went dead.
Gilbert Greenfield lay back in bed, stock still for several seconds. They’d all be going to prison for treason if Sashakovich wasn’t dead before the investigation started. It wasn’t just the President who would end up in prison. Greenfield and one of his assistant directors of operations—Mark McDougal—would also spend the rest of their lives in prison, or possibly be executed. Holy shit on a marshmallow stick.
He pulled himself from the bed and began to get dressed. It might take him over an hour to get to the agency, where he could talk in private with McDougal. Mark had a wife who might overhear the conversation if he called him at home.
* * *
Mark McDougal’s cellphone rang out AC/DC’s “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.” He peered at the clock radio. 3:18 a.m.
The text message read, “Urgent meeting at 4:30 AM. Call my office phone in one hour. And get there ASAP. Use secure link. Greenfield.”
McDougal slipped from the bed, careful not to disturb his wife. He dressed quickly and was in his car, exiting the driveway in under twenty minutes. He wondered, What did that bastard want him to do now? And to whom?
How could anything be urgent for an outgoing director of an intelligence service after his party lost the election? Suddenly it hit him: Oh shit, he wants to clean up loose ends before Inauguration Day.
The jolt of recognizing what lay before him
caused his foot to slip off the accelerator and the car coasted backwards into the street. He pulled to the curb and sat thinking for several minutes before he was calm enough to drive off downtown.
* * *
Judge Malcolm Arbuckle III scanned the transcripts of the evidence and the typed copies of the arguments he’d heard earlier. It was just an inquest. He had to decide whether the young woman should be remanded in custody to stand trial. Sitting behind the desk in his chambers, he lifted his gaze to watch snow flurries fall outside his window and held a pen to his lips. The top page of the pad on the desk was blank.
The musty smell of the old courthouse reminded him of the traditions going back centuries, some great and good, some terrible and pompous. He’d sworn privately that he’d never fall victim to the evil some of his predecessors had battled with and lost.
The case presented by the woman’s attorney was simple. Her adopted mother had been shot and had almost died in surgery. There was substantial evidence that many people—hundreds?—wanted her dead. The youngster feared that someone might try to finish the job and had smuggled a plastic gun into the hospital to protect her. But that also indicated the possibility of premeditation. He shook his head, thinking.
The assistant district attorney maintained that just the act of sneaking a gun into the hospital was a misdemeanor. And she’d mentioned to the court that the young woman had once been homeless and still was a child at risk. Might she have been searching for the opportunity to use that gun to kill someone? Of course, that would also open the door for the defense to present the case that the girl was a victim because the system had shown her that killing was an acceptable act. Still, she’d been adopted by people who cared for her. She was attending a private school and seemed to be overcoming some learning disabilities. She might become a stalwart citizen. Maybe all she needed was this experience. Maybe the burden of the court to fix the problem lay with him. Wasn’t there a way to render a decision that would motivate the teen to see the light?