Order of Succession: Getting Away with Murder (Brian Sadler Archaeological Mystery Series Book 5)

by Bill Thompson

  Georgetown University's Foreign Service School was a very cosmopolitan, ethnically and socially diverse place. There were kids from a hundred countries and a hundred backgrounds. Even so, the two Arab boys felt a little self-conscious walking around campus after 9/11 even though no one ever said anything negative to them.

  Two days later Adam revealed that the mosque they'd visited had been shuttered. People had marched in front of it and threatened some of the worshippers.

  "Come with me tonight. I know where Ali and Mo are hiding out."

  This was exciting stuff for a college sophomore. In a garage apartment somewhere in Virginia, they talked until dawn. This time it was different. The men explained 9/11 as a retaliatory strike against a nation that had supported the Jews every time an issue arose. The USA got involved in Middle Eastern civil wars, coups and bombing missions, always taking sides and protecting its own interests. The downtrodden were always left behind.

  Once again all this made sense. Was he an American first, Ali asked Joe that night, or was he a Muslim? He could not ignore the issues much longer, they insisted. The time was coming when strong men would make a choice, standing and revealing who they really were inside. Soon men would fight for what they believed, right here in America.

  At some point soon after that, Joe made the choice. His friends Ali and Mo were a huge help, as was his roommate Adam. Joe chose his heritage over his nationality.

  He said he would renounce Catholicism immediately, but they told him not to do it. It would help, they said, if he fought the battle in secret. Just blend in and be like everyone else. Graduate, get a job, do everything every other loyal, red-blooded American citizen does. Some day – maybe a day far in the future – he would have the chance to stand for his beliefs.

  That was the day Joe agreed to be an undercover fighter for the cause. The men who recruited him – Ali and Mo – shifted roles. They were no longer casual friends – they were his handlers. It was a subtle but important change. He belonged to them now.

  When he graduated and went to work at the US Embassy in Baghdad, translating documents and transmissions the CIA intercepted every day, Ali and Mo put him in contact with some of the very people whose texts and emails he was translating. He gave them information about what was going on inside the embassy. He never knew if it was important or not; they wanted whatever he could give them.

  He juggled the two parts of his life very carefully. It was exciting and he felt as though he was making a contribution to his people, but if he made a misstep, he would pay dearly. He knew the Iraqis would kill him if the Americans discovered what he was doing. That was simply how it was, and it didn't make Joe any less fervent in his desire to aid the cause.

  Two years later his father died and he returned to America for the funeral. He planned to return to Baghdad immediately afterwards, but his handlers thought he was ready to move on. He had become exactly what they wanted – an extremely valuable commodity. He had been born and raised in the United States, and Joe was a citizen whose loyalty was unquestioned.

  Joe had been told to wait until the time was right. For all these years he had done just that, and at last he was asked to do something that turned out to be very simple. He was asked to enlist his best friend Jeremy Lail for a special project.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Franklin and Sarabeth Ives were having a quiet dinner on the veranda of their suite. They were both in their seventies, and the transatlantic crossing on the opulent ocean liner had been tops on their bucket list for twenty years. This was the third evening of an eight-day trip from New York to Southampton and they were enjoying every minute of it.

  George W. Bush had appointed Justice Ives to the Supreme Court in 2003. Over the past decade he and his friend Antonin Scalia had been the most conservative voices on the bench. After Scalia died, the next appointee moved the conservative justices – Ives and three others – into the distinct minority. That had disappointed him, but this new President's possible appointees were downright frightening. Parkes was a loose cannon. Thank God the Republicans controlled the Senate, he'd said to Sarabeth more than once lately. That might keep Parkes in check.

  This was the first time the couple had been really alone with each other in years. At home in Washington they were always accompanied by Supreme Court police officers. When Ives traveled to one city or another to make a speech, the US Marshals were his bodyguards. The only time justices had an option about security was when they were on vacation, and the Ives hadn't taken a vacation in a long, long time. Instead of traveling to places they might have enjoyed, they saved their money for the cruise of a lifetime. They had packed tuxedos and long dresses, but they left their security detail – their shepherds, as Franklin called them – at home.

  The couple had dined formally the past two evenings, meeting new friends around their own ages in the beautiful dining room. Ives wasn't as well known as some justices, and this sophisticated crowd of mostly Brits wasn't into celebrity-gawking anyway. Sarabeth was pleased that no one gave them a second glance. It was refreshing.

  Tonight they'd decided to order room service and eat on the patio outside their suite. The weather was pleasantly cool and the dinner had been really special. They clinked wineglasses, held hands for a prayer before the meal and dined as the full moon illuminated smooth seas stretching endlessly in every direction.

  Around nine Sarabeth yawned, stretched and said, "I think I'll take a shower and read until I fall asleep. Are you going to go upstairs for a brandy?"

  Last night after dinner they had taken a stroll and discovered a tiny British pub tucked away on the tenth level. It was quiet and cozy and they had enjoyed a nightcap. Franklin told his wife that was exactly what he wanted to do. He put on a sport jacket, kissed her goodbye and told her he'd be back shortly.

  When Sarabeth was too sleepy to read any longer, she glanced at the clock. It was after ten and Franklin had been gone over an hour. Where was he?

  Fully awake now, she looked up the number of the pub in the ship's directory. A man with a distinct British accent answered with a cheery greeting. She asked if her husband was in the bar and described him and the jacket he was wearing.

  "He was here, madam, but he's been gone, oh, I'd say half an hour. I wouldn't worry much. There's a lot to do on the ship. He's probably found a place to listen to music somewhere!"

  This wasn't like Franklin at all, she thought as she dressed. She wasn't sure where to start – the ship was massive. She left him a note that she was looking for him and would be back here at eleven sharp. If he returned, he'd wait for her. That was her Franklin and she knew what he'd do.

  She wandered around for fifteen minutes, sticking her head inside public areas here and there with no luck. She went back to the room and saw the note where she'd left it.

  She changed the time on the note to 11:30 and opened her door to leave again. At that moment the steward who was in charge of this block of suites happened by.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Ives. Is there something I can get for you?"

  "I'm actually looking for my husband," she said, her worried voice filled with anxiety. "He's been gone a lot longer than he said, and this just isn't like him."

  The steward offered to get a security person to accompany her, and she quickly agreed. She felt more at ease – two sets of eyes and all that. They searched all the public areas: the bars, nightclubs, theater and even the men's grill, where some passengers congregated for an after-dinner cigar. Franklin didn't like smoky rooms, but maybe he'd gone there anyway. They didn't see him anywhere.

  Around midnight the security officer notified the bridge that a passenger was missing and a squadron of men began searching the ship floor by floor. Franklin Ives was nowhere to be found. At 2:30 a.m. the captain called the company's New York offices and told the night operator to contact the US Marshals Service. A passenger was missing – not just any passenger but a Supreme Court justice.

  Passengers who were up and about at da
ybreak felt the ship come to a full stop. Those on the starboard side saw a helicopter touch down on the top deck's landing pad. Six agents interviewed Sarabeth Ives and began an intensive search.

  At 8:30 every morning the captain's voice came across the intercom system to deliver his daily briefing to the guests on board. Today he announced that a passenger in his seventies was missing and asked if anyone might have seen or heard anything.

  Only one person came forward to speak with the Marshals. Around 9:45 last night, he said, he was on his veranda, smoking a cigarette, when he thought he saw something dark fall into the sea from somewhere above him. He wasn't sure if he really saw anything and even now couldn't say for sure that it happened.

  The man's stateroom was situated four decks below the British pub where Ives was last seen. Outside the pub was a ten-foot sidewalk with a rail for strollers to pause and look at the ocean. No one saw anything unusual up there last night, no one volunteered any further information, and Justice Franklin Ives was never seen again.

  The cause of death listed on his death certificate was “presumed drowning.” Ives had apparently fallen overboard accidentally and the matter was considered closed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Parnell Varney loved to fish the old-fashioned way his dad had taught him back in Pennsylvania. This morning he sat in a folding chair on the bank of the pond that lay behind his mountain cabin. He'd owned these forty acres in Vermont since the sixties, and he treasured the limited time he got to spend here with his line in the water and a red-and-white bobber floating lazily on the still water.

  Justice Varney liked this time of day best. At six in the morning here in the hills, things were just about perfect. A seventy-nine-year-old confirmed bachelor, Parnell loved the solitude, listening to birds call to each other, hearing bullfrogs sing in throaty hums, and watching the occasional bass jump out of the water just out of range of the worm on his hook. He loved the Supreme Court, but compared to the hubbub of Washington and the reserved dignity of the court itself, this was paradise. He could wear his old jeans, a faded hat and boots that had seen better days. Up here he wasn't Supreme Court Justice Parnell Varney. To his friends in the little town a couple of miles away he was simply Parnell.

  Less than two weeks ago his good friend and fellow conservative Justice Franklin Ives apparently fell from the deck of a cruise ship. After that mysterious incident, the US Marshals dramatically ramped up security for all the justices. They wouldn't let him drive alone anymore, not even up here in the boondocks, and this very minute an agent sat in the old rocker on the porch a hundred yards behind him.

  The guy means well, and if he had his way, he'd be standing here next to me. He's just doing his job, and up on the porch is fine. At least I can have a little peace and quiet.

  Suddenly the bobber sank as a fish took the bait.

  "Gotcha!" the agent heard Varney yell as he watched him pull back hard on the pole to set his hook. Then he heard a sharp crack from off in the distance. It echoed across the water. The agent jumped to his feet and saw the justice fall. He ran to him, knelt down and saw blood flowing from a hole in Varney's chest. Parnell Varney was dead.

  Agents combed the dense woods that ringed Varney's pond, but they found absolutely no clues. US Marshals and the state police concluded that, for reasons unknown, a shooter had stood in the trees across the pond and fired once, murdering the justice.

  President Chambliss T. Parkes hadn't yet nominated a replacement for Franklin Ives, and now he had two vacancies to fill. Two conservative voices on the court were silenced now. There was no hurry to find replacements. For now the Supreme Court would consist of four liberal justices and three conservatives.

  And that fit Cham's plans just fine.

  Public reaction to the loss of two Supreme Court Justices in as many weeks was swift. The financial markets that had just begun to recover swooned again as fear and uncertainty gripped the American people once more.

  Parkes issued statements every day, assuring his fellow Americans that the deaths were nothing more than a strange coincidence. Ives’s death had been ruled accidental, and although Varney was murdered, there was no reason to read more into the situation than it warranted.

  Prior to all this, the economy in the United States had been robust. All the numbers were trending in the right direction and the stock market had been near its all-time high. Stay focused on the positives, the new president urged the nation, and don’t let fear and panic overpower your basic American instincts.

  Over time, the people agreed. It was slower this time around but over the next couple of weeks there was no additional bad news. Things got back on the right track – the road to normalcy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Master Sergeant Jeremy Lail stepped into a black sedan idling curbside at Athens International Airport, dragging his rolling suitcase in next to him. With a wide grin and a firm handshake, the driver greeted him effusively in broken English.

  "I am so glad to meet you! You are a true hero, sir! I will be taking you to the house where you will stay until tomorrow. If you have a cellphone, please give it to me now. The GPS function will give you away. And do not use your credit cards again. They told me to give you these euros." He handed Jeremy an envelope stuffed with currency.

  Lail was too tired to do anything but nod his head and hand over his phone. He didn't even care who "they" were – the people who'd given him the euros. His body felt like there had been a brawl inside it. The flight had taken just over ten hours, and he'd been stuck in a window seat with two boys in their early teens next to him. He hadn't gotten even one minute of sleep. The kids put their tray tables up and down, up and down all night long, their music was so loud he could hear it through the earphones, and their Greek parents across the aisle ignored them completely. The parents were sleeping well, he noticed as he glanced over more than once. They slept and he was trapped. Even going to the bathroom was a struggle maneuvering over backpacks on the floor beneath their feet and gathering up bottles and snacks in order to raise their tray tables. After all that was done, he could snake his way out to the aisle. When he returned after the most recent trip to the head, one kid had spilled Coke in Jeremy's seat and was half-heartedly attempting to wipe it up while his fat brother giggled uncontrollably.

  The biggest part of his inability to sleep was the overpowering remorse about what he had done. As soon as he heard the news about the disappearances, Jeremy knew what had happened. He had helped murder the President and Vice President of the United States and two dozen other innocent people. Without his signature on the preflight checklists, Air Force One and Air Force Two wouldn't have disappeared. He knew something very unusual had happened, but he signed off anyway. He'd made a serious mistake with monumental consequences.

  As the driver negotiated through the dense traffic in Athens, Jeremy put his head back and rubbed his tired eyes. How in hell did I end up here, running away from the country I've served for years and being betrayed by my best friend?

  All this had started with Joe, he reflected with deep sadness. They had identical '55 Chevy Bel Airs. Jeremy's was red and white, just as it had come from the factory, but Joe's had been painted black. They were both bachelors, and from that first day when they met for a beer after Joe's salvage yard closed, they began to spend time with each other.

  Although Joe was five years younger, he became both a good friend and a counselor as Jeremy struggled with depression and his overwhelming lack of self-esteem. They had long talks about Jeremy's father and how he had demeaned every positive thing the boy ever did.

  "I worked my ass off and became a damned master sergeant, for God's sake, and all he could say was why didn't I have the initiative to be an officer?"

  Joe had grown up differently. His had been a home filled with love and respect, but he listened and tried to offer helpful advice. It seemed to be good for Jeremy; he became more upbeat, gregarious and social. Jeremy even started a Saturday night poker game at
his house, inviting his boss and others from the base. Joe sometimes included his own friends too. One night he introduced everyone to his friend Ali. Ali – who was actually Joe's handler – fit in well and everyone seemed to enjoy his company.

  A few days after that poker game, Ali had arranged a meeting. Joe hadn't seen much of Ali or Mo in years, but he remained as committed to helping his Muslim brothers now as he'd been just after 9/11. Islamophobia in America wasn't getting any better in the twenty-first century. As his countrymen in the Middle East fought civil wars and rebel insurgencies, they also attacked the West in places like Paris and Brussels. That did nothing to endear them with America, although Joe truly believed the jihadists were fighting a righteous holy war for Islam.

  No one would have imagined how he really felt. Joe vehemently denounced radical terrorists when the subject came up, just as every other red-blooded American did. He engaged in spirited discussions with his employees at the salvage yard, always taking the side of the USA. No one would have believed that this Catholic American was a totally different person in his mind and in his heart.