The Italian Deception

by Darby Philips

  All student conversation ceased. A basketball bounced to silence.

  The judges recoiled.

  David loaded another potato into the chamber, sprayed more propellant into the ignition box, and pressed the red trigger again. The procedure took only a few seconds, but in that time, the crowd around the display had doubled in size as students rushed to see what was happening.

  As the second potato exploded in a wet fireworks display, a few students hooted encouragement. More students rushed over to see what was happening. The crowd had doubled in size again since the last explosion.

  As the loud splat of the third potato rained liquid down the plywood, the design took shape. Some students cheered and some took up the chant of, “Munch-kin! Munch-kin!”

  The judges quizzically surveyed the exuberant crowd like a cowhand anticipating a stampede.

  The cheers and chanting grew almost as loud as the thwump of the potato gun. As David emptied the potato gun into the plywood, the last of the liquid ran down the grooves and revealed the school logo with the caption Hillcrest Rules.

  Paul looked at the crowd clapping and cheering for David and smiled. He noticed the judges conspiratorially whispering to each other. He then heard a fake British accent say, “What’s going on here?”

  Haverford pushed through the crowd with Ralph Chapel following close behind. Paul smiled as he thought of their discussion about knobs, but his smile faltered as he noticed him stare in horror at David’s spud gun.

  Before he could say anything, Haverford said, “Mr. Chapel, please confiscate that weapon immediately.”

  Ralph lazily retrieved the gun and all its parts and put them in the canvas sack.

  Cries of protest erupted from the student crowd.

  “You’re not seriously going to confiscate the gun because you’re afraid of it, are you?” Paul asked, stepping forward.

  Various students in the crowd agreed with him.

  Haverford’s face turned livid at the sight of him. “I will not allow that weapon to be on campus.” He turned to Ralph. “Take it to the furnace room and dispose of it.”

  Paul glanced at David, who seemed dumbfounded. “You…”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Taylor. Your opinions are no longer needed at Hillcrest.”

  A witty comeback was on his lips when he felt a warning hand on his shoulder. It was Erin. She whispered. “Not now.” Her eyes darted between Haverford and David. Paul realized she was warning him that if he continued to push, Haverford might give David repercussions. His mouth tightened in anger, but he let the matter drop.

  Haverford, sensing victory, smiled and disappeared into the crowd.

  As the crowd dispersed, Erin said, “I’m working on something that might get you back next semester.” She said it pragmatically. He hadn’t seen her since he returned from Italy and he didn’t know if she was irritated with him about breaking their Saturday date.

  Two girls grabbed her arm. One said, “Miss. Randolph. We have to get back to the game. The seniors are winning.”

  Erin smiled. “Duty calls. We still on for tonight?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good,” she said while the students dragged her away.

  Paul glimpsed David standing in a small crowd asking about the spud gun. They decried the unfairness of the administration confiscating his invention.

  David seemed confused by all the attention.

  A blond boy about David’s age hooked a thumb toward the plywood backboard and asked, “Hey, you need help cleaning up?”

  He smiled. David had found a friend.

  The PA system crackled. “May I have your attention?” Haverford said. “May I have your attention, please?”

  The gym quieted.

  “Meteorologists have issued a warning that the snow storm coming down from Canada will turn into a severe storm by this evening. For that reason, I’m cancelling the rest of Founder’s Day celebrations. Please head back to the dorms and finish packing. The buses to the airport will depart in one hour. If you’re late, you’ll have to stay at school until the storm passes. Have a good winter break and we’ll see you in January.”

  The gym collectively sighed.

  Glancing at his phone, Paul realized he was late for Jacob.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Shelly had slept six hours in a cheap motel outside Union City, New Jersey the previous night. She’d paid cash and they’d asked no questions. Early today, she’d left the hotel, crisscrossed New York City, and bought a change of clothes and a larger tote bag in a boutique store, a burner phone from a chain department store, and a few other things at various shops. Now she sat in a coffee shop in lower Manhattan. The feeling she’d missed something when reviewing the home surveillance tapes still gnawed at her. She scrutinized the flower arrangement in the foyer, the note on the man’s desk, and the micro-dot camera display. Her intuition wasn’t focused on the specific items, but on something connected to them. A memory or piece of information buried in her mind. She growled in frustration.

  Her mind drifted back to the assassin. She thought about going to the FBI for help. But she had been suspended and had no proof anyone was actually after her. Additionally, she didn’t know who she could trust. And Forton couldn’t help because the traitor was surveilling him and probably both of their known associates. She was on her own. Her only solution was to discover the traitor’s identity.

  She logged into the secure file storage website. Tom Forton had replied to her message. The first few lines read: Are you okay? Do you need help? Where are you? She ignored those and focused on the last part. Luther Freedman was killed last night. He used to run an agent who infiltrated the Ndrangheta. Do you think it’s related to your search?

  Her stomach shrank into a ball. She wondered how the traitor had discovered him. Luther must have made inquiries about her from the description Abelie had given.

  Abelie, Shelly thought. She quickly checked the news sites for any mention of Abelie’s alias, Jennifer Thompson. A link in the local crime section led her to a story of a family killed in a home invasion. A woman, her husband, and their baby. The Thompsons were dead.

  And it was her fault. She slammed the lid of the laptop closed. She’d pushed Abelie to confide in her, promising anonymity and safety. Guilt wracked her. She stewed in it until she remembered the true killer: the traitor. Fury replaced guilt. She would catch the traitor and make him pay.

  She reopened her laptop and wrote a short reply, saying, I’m safe. I’ll contact you when I find the traitor. Her mouse crept toward the save button and then froze.

  Her body went cold.

  A memory from her FBI training played in her mind. It was a history lecture covering the spy tools the U.S. and Russia used during the Cold War. Tom Forton was the instructor. She tried to recall if he’d showed any special interest in the microdot machine. It was more than ten years ago, and she couldn’t remember anything specific.

  Was she grasping at straws? Could Tom have organized the whole thing? And if he was betraying all of them, why had he been helping her find the traitor?

  Too many unanswered questions. She needed answers. And what better way to get answers than to give a test, but one that wouldn’t let him know he was being tested.

  Plans and options ran through her mind before she settled on the best one. She’d need a place she knew well, with clear lines of sight, and she’d have to do it quickly so he’d be forced to act overtly.

  Shelly decided on a place in the city. It had everything she needed. Tactically, it wasn’t the best, but she had to take that risk. She deleted her previous message and wrote. I found out the ‘Ndrangheta and the traitor are communicating through micro-dots on florist’s cards, but I need your help to go further. I’m still moving around to make sure the killer doesn’t find me. Meet me in the Noguchi museum a.s.a.p. If you don’t arrive soon, I’ll leave and try to find the traitor on my own.

  She marked it urgent knowing the website would immediately contac
t Tom. She grabbed her stuff and ran out of the coffee shop. She didn’t have much time.

  Snow fell lightly. The cold weather made her breath form clouds. Wind blew across her. She walked until she saw a parking garage then ducked inside.

  She walked the rows of cars until she found one that fit her needs. She pulled out a knife and a small cylinder device from her bag. With the cylinder, she opened the car door. Alarms whirred. Headlights flashed. She hopped in the car, reached under the dash, and pried open the base of the steering column with the knife. She cut a red and white wire, stripped the rubber coating off, and tied them together. The engine roared to life. She exited the parking structure and drove through New York City streets. Snow was collecting on the sidewalk, but it was a gray slush on the road.

  As she turned onto 33rd Street, she gunned the motor and drove by the museum. No apparent trap. She then drove across Vernon Boulevard and parked in the Costco parking lot, angling her car so she had a clear view of the front entrance to the Noguchi museum. The parking lot had been an old side street before the warehouse behemoth was built. It was long, narrow, bordered by Rainey Park on one side, and ran all the way to the river. No one could surprise her. It was a straight shot to Vernon Boulevard, where she had dozens of branching streets to escape.

  She reached into her tote and retrieved a pair of binoculars and a pistol. She put her pistol on the passenger seat, then scanned the streets with the binoculars. No sirens. No ambush. Maybe Tom wasn’t the traitor.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Tom Forton sat in the Fiumicino International Airport in Rome and realized he’d drastically underestimated Shelly and Paul. When he’d first broached the idea of emulating Russia’s government and mafia partnership with a contact in the Ndrangheta, they’d been skeptical. But when his information helped them expand into North America more quickly and used an unwitting law enforcement to eliminate their competition, they’d embraced the idea wholeheartedly. He’d even helped them recruit politicians. And they’d paid him a lot of money.

  Through his contacts in law enforcement within other countries, he’d recruited other partners and the Ndrangheta had rapidly expanded into Europe. A surprising benefit was that by helping the Ndrangheta eliminate rival criminal groups, he’d been rapidly promoted. His plan to become Director of the International Operations Division had been on track. Until Paul had survived the Grimaldis and declared to anyone who’d listen that there was a mole in the FBI.

  He’d done everything possible to hinder Paul’s search for the one who betrayed him, even having Shelly suspended. It hadn’t been enough. And now, despite his best efforts, Shelly’s recent trip to Italy had exposed his contact within the Ndrangheta. He’d initiated his backup plan, but now he’d have to take further steps. He’d activate his spy at Hillcrest and make sure no one left that school alive. In the aftermath, the media would go into overdrive focusing on the criminal element. His agency would need a quick, highly visible operation to deflect criticism. He’d offer them that solution and his career would rocket back onto its former trajectory.

  As long as the current situation didn’t expose his association with the Ndrangheta. If that happened, they’d kill him.

  Of course, he’d prepared for this possibility. He’d recorded every move he and the Ndrangheta had made. All the names, dates, and actions. But if his current plan worked, the Grimadis and Paul and Shelly would be eliminated and he could continue working with the Ndrangheta. And he’d have $64 million dollars to use for his other plan.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Shelly waited. Less than thirty minutes later, two government issued sedans screeched onto 33rd Street. One came from Vernon Boulevard, one from 10th Street. She focused her binoculars. The cars skidded to a stop in front of the museum, and four agents got out, two from each car. They wore suits and drew guns as they waited next to their vehicles. Classic FBI tactics. One of them, a beefy man with gray hair, spoke into a phone. Seconds later, a blue BMW turned down 10th and parked behind them. Two other agents, weapons drawn, rushed the front door.

  That was all Shelly needed to see. She was right. Tom Forton had been behind everything. Before she could try to stop him, however, she had to escape the agents chasing her.

  She tossed the binoculars onto the passenger seat and casually drove down the parking lot. As she turned right onto Vernon Boulevard, two agents walked out of the museum. She guessed they’d asked the ticket clerk and confirmed she’d never entered.

  An agent spotted her and pointed. The other agent spoke into his radio. Two other agents darted out of the museum and all four dashed for their cars.

  Shelly yanked the stick shift into first and slammed her foot on the accelerator. The car darted down Vernon Boulevard.

  Sirens sounded behind her. In the rearview mirror, Shelly saw the FBI cars give chase. She cycled through her gears and turned onto 38th Avenue, down to 22nd, and kept turning onto different streets every block or two. The agents tried to keep up. It was touch and go for two miles, but Shelly had scouted these streets and planned this very escape route when she’d first met Tom at the museum less than a week ago. The snow wasn’t bad enough on the streets to impede her progress yet, but it was close. Several times, she slid too far into turns, only to narrowly correct herself before she crashed into another vehicle.

  As she turned onto 29th, she left the FBI a block behind. She continued speeding until she hit 39th, then sped down the street until she saw another parking garage. She whipped into the entrance and sped to the top floor and skidded into a parking space. She grabbed her gun and tote and ran down the row of parked cars. But she didn’t see any cars with snow tires already attached.

  She thought of all the implications now that she knew Tom was the traitor. He’d effectively have the whole government after her. He wouldn’t blame her outright, he’d make suppositions. He’d say things like, “She’s been erratic, obsessed with finding a traitor.” He’d suggest they look into Abelie and Luther Freedman’s deaths. He’d suggest other things too, all designed to let them find the ‘clues’ he’d probably planted. And he’d continually emphasize that she was armed and dangerous. That would make every agent shoot at any imagined provocation, something Tom needed to ensure so she didn’t expose him. If he’d hidden his deception from within the FBI for this long, he’d undoubtedly done a good job setting her up. Maybe even Paul. That floored her. She had to warn Paul. Tom would have someone at the school watching him. Getting close to him. Getting ready to kill him should he remember. Her escape could trigger that.

  Shelly dialed the school as she burst through the stairwell door and ran to the level below. An error sound occurred and a short message followed, “The number you have dialed…”

  “Fuck,” she said. The cell towers up north must have gone down. The snow must be heavier up there, she thought. She rushed down another row of cars.

  She saw a dark gray MINI Cooper Countryman with snow tires already attached. She quickly picked the lock, hotwired the engine, and reversed out of the parking space.

  As she sped out of the garage, she anticipated Tom’s next step. Since he couldn’t get to her, he’d drive to Hillcrest and capture Paul or Tiffany, using one of them to force her to reveal what she knew. He’d have to do this alone because involving anyone else would expose him. She had to get to Hillcrest.

  She thought of anyone who could help her and realized no one would believe her with a warrant out for her arrest. Desperately, she dialed the only person who might help her. The phone rang, someone picked up, and Shelly heard, “This is Cynthia Brown. I’ll be on vacation from ….”

  Shelly hung up in frustration. She made a right turn and the car skidded, slowly creeping into oncoming traffic. She slammed into low gear, and her snow tires caught. As the car straightened out, a thought shook her mind like a thunderstorm. The Vice Superintendent had recently received a message from Tom. With Paul’s trial coming up, and Shelly making progress with her investigation, Tom must have
communicated some plan to the Ndrangheta.

  The only plan worth enacting at that time was to kill Paul. And the only people with a strong enough motive to do so where the Grimaldis. Shelly’s mind reeled as she realized that the message could only be one thing: telling the Grimaldis where to find Paul. The same place where her daughter was.

  She realized she’d fatally underestimated Tom. He’d obviously been planning this for a long time, and the Grimaldis might already be at the school. Shelly raced through city streets desperately looking for the interstate onramp.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Paul hurried across campus. Snow fell harder. As he entered Conference Room C, he said, “Sorry I’m late, Doc.”

  “No worries. Any progress?”

  Paul told him about the dream last night. He suddenly realized that, working on his own, it had taken him six months to recall everything up to his torture. Since he’d started working with Jacob a week ago, he’d remembered nearly everything but what happened to Eric and the $64 million.

  “Paul,” Jacob said, “outside voice, please.”

  “Sorry, Doc. Was just thinking how much progress we’ve made and how quickly we’ve made it.”

  “You’re right. And it proves that you have all the memories, the amnesia is no longer the issue. You’re the issue.”

  Again, Paul feared his issues might stem from hereditary dementia, but he realized Jacob wasn’t referring to that. “You think I don’t want to remember?” he said, raising his voice.

  “In the beginning, I don’t think you did. Now, I’m convinced you do, but you fear what those memories will reveal.”

  “You can’t…” But Paul realized he was right. Whatever happened to Eric, it meant he’d either been betrayed by his closest friend or his actions had led to Eric’s death.