The Circle of Eight (A James Acton Thriller, Book #7) (James Acton Thrillers)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  “Can I get anything for you gentlemen? More coffee, something from the kitchen?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” replied Stucco. “If we need anything, we’ll call them ourselves. You’ve got more important things to do than wait on us.”

  “More important maybe, but not more entertaining,” she replied, casting a glance at Stucco and blushing.

  Stucco smiled, still not getting it, and pointed at Spock and Atlas.

  “Now don’t you two give her a hard time when I’m gone.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” replied Spock.

  “I’m renowned for being a perfect gentleman,” boomed Atlas.

  Dawson rose from his chair.

  “Time we got back on our rounds.”

  Stucco nodded and was about to say something when Maria’s phone beeped on her hip. She grabbed it and read the message then hit the speed dial.

  “What is it this time?” she asked, sounding exasperated. She listened, shaking her head more and more as the person on the other end of the line explained something. “And when did we last clean his room?”—“And that was after he left it this morning?”—“And he hasn’t been back until now?”—“And you’re sure we cleaned it?”—“He said what?”—“Fine. I’ll go tell him personally.”

  She ended the call, looking around the room.

  “Sorry about that. It’s our favorite guest. He’s demanding we send a maid to clean his room, which was already cleaned, and that she better be sexy.”

  Stucco’s eyebrows raced up his forehead as his head dipped toward his chest.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Exactly. What a pig!” She put her hand on the door knob. “I need to go tell our honored guest that there is no maid service at this time of night.” She opened the door. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  The door closed and Dawson watched as one of the cameras showed her heading for the elevators.

  “Man, she reminds me so much of my little sis,” sighed Stucco.

  “Eww!” exclaimed Spock. “That’s just wrong!”

  “Huh?”

  Dawson laughed, opening the door and stepping into the hallway.

  “I’ll explain it to you on the way,” he said, holding the door.

  Stucco, still puzzled, joined him in the hall and they made their rounds mostly in silence. As they rode up the elevator to the Secretary of State’s floor, Stucco turned to Dawson.

  “They actually thought I was attracted to her?”

  Dawson nodded, battling to suppress the smile desperate to break out.

  “That’s so wrong!” exploded Stucco. “That’s my little sister! Well, you know what I mean.”

  “I hear yah.”

  “Aw, man!” muttered Stucco as the doors opened. “My sister!”

  Dawson looked left, and all was clear. The Secretary of State’s room was to the left, but their job was to check the floor for anything unusual then switch off with Sergeants Carl “Niner” Sung and Gerry “Jimmy Olson” Hudson.

  “Oh my God!” exclaimed Stucco. Dawson’s head jerked right to see Stucco racing toward Maria as she stumbled out of the pig Lacroix’s room, falling into Stucco’s arms as the door shut behind her. When Dawson arrived Stucco already had her lying on the floor, her bloodied face almost unrecognizable, her shirt torn off, hanging from her wrist, her bra missing, her skirt hiked all the way revealing her panties had been removed.

  “What happened?” cried Stucco.

  “Help me!” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

  “Did he do this to you?” demanded Stucco, pointing at the door.

  “H-he raped me!” she cried.

  Dawson stood up, standing back from the scene as he activated his mike.

  “Spock, we’ve got a problem. Contact local authorities. There’s been a rape. We’re going to need police and an ambulance, over.”

  “Spock here, Atlas is contacting them now. I’ve got you on camera. Please tell me”—there was a pause, and the voice that continued was subdued—“tell me that it isn’t Maria.”

  “Sorry, but it is. Better contact the day manager.”

  Another pause, then all business.

  “Roger that. Let us know if you need anything.”

  “Better wake the others, we’re going to be busy here so we’ll need them to cover our rounds.”

  “Done.”

  There was a roar from behind him and Dawson spun to see Stucco kick open the door to the World Bank honcho’s room. Before Dawson could get there Stucco was already inside, yelling for blood. Dawson rushed into the room and found Stucco with the naked man by the throat shoving him toward the ground. The man’s head slammed into the carpet, and Stucco rained blow upon blow on the man’s face while screaming obscenities at him, each syllable emphasized with a punch.

  Dawson grabbed Stucco and hauled him off the now crying man, the coward begging for Stucco to stop. As soon as he was freed of his attacker he scrambled to the other side of the room, cowering in the corner, covering himself with a pillow taken from a couch.

  Stucco struggled to free himself from Dawson’s iron grip as Dawson tried to calm him.

  “Take it easy, you got him. The police are on their way,” said Dawson.

  “Let me at him, BD. That bastard has to pay for what he’s done!”

  “And he will. In a court of law. Now how about you go watch Maria until help arrives?”

  This seemed to work, Stucco relaxing slightly.

  “I’m okay,” he muttered and Dawson let him go. Stucco left the room and Dawson turned to the naked man.

  “Now you just stay put until the police get here, or what he did to you will seem like a light spanking.”

  The man stood up, still pressed into the corner, showing no shame in his nudity, though a forbidden locker room glance showed Dawson the man should be. The man grabbed a robe from the back of a chair and put it on, tying the belt with a snap, the cowardly SOB beginning to transform into the arrogant pig that Maria had described.

  Dawson looked about the suite, larger even than the Secretary of State’s, but then this was the World Bank, unanswerable to anyone on how they spent our money, its financing in the form of taxes paid by Western governments to the organization based on treaties signed long ago by people no longer in power, without the knowledge or understanding of most voters in the contributing countries.

  To his left there was a large table filled with stacks of files, color coded maps, and paperwork spread across it. He walked over to it, something catching his eye, several black folders with what appeared to be a large rose with a Christian cross in the center, embossed on the covers, the design intriguing.

  “Don’t look at those!” yelled the man.

  Which made Dawson all the more curious, but as a trained soldier, he understood his job. And this wasn’t it. But it also wasn’t to obey the orders of rapists.

  Dawson looked at the man who had puffed himself out to look far more important than he had moments ago.

  “I must insist you leave my room at once.”

  “Why? So you can have a shower and try to wash away the evidence?”

  “Evidence of what?”

  Dawson’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Evidence of what?” he repeated. “Are you kidding me? You just raped a woman.”

  “I did no such thing,” said the man, lighting a cigarette in the non-smoking room, the small plastic signs displayed in several places, not the least of which was the very table he was standing beside. Dawson had met people like this on many occasions, almost always government of some type, who thought the rules didn’t apply to them because of a title bestowed upon them that indicated I’m better than you.

  “The woman lying in the hallway beaten to a pulp and stripped nearly naked will most likely disagree.”

  The man took a long drag on his cigarette then smiled.

  “She was a willing participant.”

  Dawson wanted to tear the man’s throat out. It would be w
orth ending his career killing a man like this.

  “We’ll let the police decide.”

  “If the police set one foot in this room, you and anyone you care about are dead.”

  Dawson took several steps toward the man, raising a finger and pointing at him.

  “I highly suggest you learn to shut that mouth of yours. You’ll find that threats usually result in broken bones around me. Understand?”

  The man’s bravado broke for a split second as he took a step back, his hand shaking as he took another pull on his cigarette. The broken door was pushed aside and several policemen entered. Dawson stepped aside, the four men spreading out, quickly searching the suite to see if anyone else was present. A fifth man in plainclothes entered, his suit and ankle length jacket suggesting he was a detective.

  “I am Inspector Pierre Laviolette of the Geneva Police. What is the problem here?” asked the man in French.

  Lacroix immediately began to spout off when Dawson interrupted, pulling out his fake Secret Service ID.

  “I’m Special Agent White, assigned to the United States Secretary of State’s security detail. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

  Inspector Laviolette raised a hand, cutting off Lacroix.

  “You are American?” he asked in accented, but excellent English.

  “Yes, sir.” Dawson showed him his ID.

  “And the man outside?”

  “Part of our detail.”

  “This man”—Laviolette cocked his head at Lacroix—“claims that the other man assaulted him for no reason.”

  “Untrue. M. Lacroix physically assaulted and most likely raped the young woman outside.”

  “He claims she was a willing participant in rough sex.”

  Dawson kept control of his anger, but just barely.

  “I know this woman, and was there when she was called to this room. She’s the hotel’s night manager, and was coming here to tell M. Lacroix that his request for a sexy maid to clean his room would not be fulfilled. M. Lacroix returned to this hotel from an unknown location less than an hour ago, had an altercation with a woman he was with in the hallway, which resulted in her leaving, and M. Lacroix then entered his room and moments later requested a ‘sexy’ maid to clean his already cleaned room. I think his intent was clear.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Listen, do you have any idea who I am?” yelled Lacroix from the corner. “I’m—”

  “I know very well who you are, monsieur, and I strongly advise you to not say anything.” He motioned to the other officers. “Arrest him. Suspicion of assault and rape.”

  Two officers grabbed the man, handcuffing him as he cursed in various foreign languages, finally settling on English, glaring at Dawson.

  “Forget what you saw here today, or you and your friend will pay dearly.”

  Dawson didn’t respond, instead glancing at the table of documents, then back at Lacroix.

  “You were warned,” growled the man as he was led outside. As he disappeared through the door, he proved he wasn’t finished. “Slut!” yelled Lacroix, to which a flurry of curses burst from Stucco’s mouth, out of sight of Dawson as the door closed.

  Alone, the inspector looked at Dawson, his face grave.

  “This will probably end my career. Both of our careers. But this man has to be stopped.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You really don’t know who this man is?”

  “Not really. He wasn’t my concern, vetted by another team since he was staying on the same floor. My understanding is he’s a high ranking member of the World Bank, clean record, respected in his profession, a patron of the arts, and disliked by this hotel’s staff.”

  “He is all that, and he is also suspected in over a dozen rapes across the world, all of which have been covered up with what you Americans I think call ‘hush money’, or worse. He is rich, very powerful, and in his world, our laws don’t apply.”

  Dawson frowned. “In my world he’d be assassinated.”

  Laviolette smiled slightly, looking at Dawson.

  “I’ve dealt with Secret Service many times. You are not Secret Service.”

  Dawson ignored the statement.

  “What can we expect next?”

  “It depends on how far she wants to take it. Normally they’re offered more money than they can ever hope to make in the next decade or two, and they take it. That will be the end of it. If she chooses to pursue it to court, then the witnesses might get bribed, or worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time that somebody has died at the hands of this man’s security force.”

  Köln, Germany

  1472 AD

  Dietrich kissed Heike for the last time with a passion he didn’t know he had in him. It was enough for him to question his decision, and as she moaned in his arms, their forbidden love swelled in his chest and at that moment his decision was made.

  “I love you,” he whispered as their lips broke.

  “And I you, my darling,” replied Heike, staring into his eyes, lost in their little world. He a doctor, she the daughter of a local cobbler. They were in different stations, her father fairly well off, expecting her to marry a business man whose family would complement their own. A doctor was not in her father’s plans. Certainly he made a reasonable living, and since he had been invited to join The Order five years ago, his lot had improved greatly, but doctors were still not considered an honorable profession unless you needed one, then they were as holy as priests.

  He grabbed her, pulling her in tightly, and his heart and head united in their decision. Despite the warnings, despite everything he had to lose, they would be together, forever.

  And he would have to tell his master that his future apprentice could be his no longer, for his heart belonged to another.

  The thought of that encounter caused both his heart and mind to falter. Not in doubt that he loved Heike, of that there was no doubt. But in fear. For the master was terrifying. Insanely intelligent, impossibly prescient. He could read people so well, it was as if he knew what they were thinking, and he never corrected anyone who might think he could indeed read their mind.

  It had been a moment like that just this morning that had sent his heart racing in terror.

  “If you are to be my apprentice tomorrow, you must give up any notion of love, of being with a woman in any way other than carnally. Marriage is forbidden to us, bachelorhood our sworn commitment.”

  “I understand, my master.”

  “Are you certain?”

  His question had made Dietrich pause as he debated on what to say. He decided to err on the side of caution.

  “I will end it with her tonight, my master.”

  “I am pleased you admitted to it, my son. Should you not have, you would not have become my apprentice tomorrow.”

  Dietrich had bowed deeply, then left the master’s chambers, immediately seeking Heike out. They had spent the evening together as he tried to figure some way to tell her it was over, but every moment together was agony, his love growing with each touch, each glance, each shared laugh and smile.

  But what will the master do?

  It was a terrifying thought. He had never heard of an apprentice rejecting his master before. He had of course heard of apprentice’s dying during training, and he wondered if they had indeed died from it, or had been executed for betraying their masters.

  He shivered.

  “Are you cold, my darling?”

  “How could I be cold when you warm my heart so?” he asked, enveloping her in his arms. Suddenly he pushed her back, holding her by both shoulders. “If we are to do this, we must do it tonight.”

  “What, my darling? What do you mean?”

  “We must tell your father of us, and if he does not bless our union, then we will leave this place and start a new life elsewhere, far away, where no one knows us, where no one can judge us.”

  She threw herself into his arms, clawing at his
back as she wept.

  “Yes oh yes, my darling! I only want to be with you, forever!”

  Dietrich took her hand and they quickly made their way toward her home at the top of the cobblestoned street as a gentle mist began to fall. He heard a foot scrape down an alley and he turned to see who might be there, but he saw nothing, including the robed figure ensconced in the darkness.

  Martin Lacroix Residence, Republic of San Marino

  Present Day

  “This meeting of the Circle of Eight is called to order.”

  The voice was deep, hollow, serious. In the entire time Doctor Martin Lacroix had heard it, he had never once sensed any emotion, any compassion, any passion. It was as cold a voice as any he had encountered, the bottom end rolling like distant thunder through his earphones, the images on the screen cloaked in the traditional brown robes, faces hidden in the shadows of their hoods.

  He had met Number One on many occasions, but to describe him would be impossible. He was of average height, his build hidden by the robes, but the boney hands suggested he was thin, and the lack of liver spots or severe wrinkling suggested he wasn’t as aged as some in The Circle. But with the knowledge and money available to The Circle, the state-of-the-art research they had access to, one’s age was no longer as easy to guess as it once was.

  Anti-aging treatments were one of the most compelling reasons to join The Order. What once was science fiction had become science fact. The ability to extend useful human life well past the century mark existed—it was simply expensive and not well known, as it created a two tiered society. Those with the money who could afford to extend their lives, and those without, doomed to die in their seventies or eighties, with the last ten or twenty years of their lives a growing set of chronic and painful problems that turned living into existing.

  But not within The Order.

  Medical experimentation was encouraged, hailed if successful, studied further if not. Members were welcome to volunteer for radical treatments that hadn’t yet even been approved for human testing, and it would be funded and performed by The Order. In fact, most cutting edge research had some sort of funding component from The Order’s various fronts, giving them access to all the research and materials necessary to conduct their own procedures.