Beyond Control

by Lawrence Verigin

  “Jorge, you’re obviously not married, but do you have any children?” Sue asked. “I feel bad that I never thought to ask before.”

  “I have a grown daughter. She lives with my parents in Colombia.”

  “Are you going to see them when we go?” Sue asked.

  “I hope. We’ll see.” Jorge changed the subject. “I’m barely ever here, so it doesn’t have a homey feel. Jack encouraged me to have a home base and to start thinking about retirement someday. But I could never just sit here and do nothing.”

  Sue looked thoughtful. “You need a place to call home and escape to from time to time.”

  Jorge nodded. “True.”

  “When was the last time you were here?” I asked.

  “About a year ago. I’d come to Dallas with Jack that time Lee was busy in London.”

  “I remember that,” Sue said.

  “I’ll only need a few minutes.” Jorge turned and walked into another room.

  I glanced to where he went and saw a corner of a bed.

  Within minutes Jorge came out holding a black duffel bag, which he left on the floor as he went back into the bedroom.

  I went to the patio and scanned for the vehicles that had followed us. They were half a block apart. The doors of the gray Chevy were open, and as I watched, two men in suits exited. “Sue, come see this.”

  Sue joined me at the railing.

  I pointed to the men walking below on the sidewalk. “They got out of the Chevy.”

  We watched as they passed the building’s main entry and kept going.

  “They seem like plain-clothes police or FBI, just by the way they walk,” Sue said.

  It was hard to see any distinguishing features from our angle and distance; however, one had a bald spot and the other, short, curly hair.

  They kept walking until they arrived at the second car that had been following us. The one with the bald spot motioned with his hand, and the doors of the Ford opened. Curly reached into the inside of his suit and held his hand there.

  Two men from the Ford stood facing the two from the Chevy. One had on a light-colored, short-sleeved button-down shirt and his head was shaved; the other wore a blue polo shirt and had dirty-blond hair. The men from the Ford were larger in build.

  Jorge came out onto the patio. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re watching the guys who were following us,” Sue said. “It doesn’t look like they know each other.”

  Bald Spot showed something that looked like a badge; there was a shiny glint when the sun hit it. Dirty Blond gave him what looked like a business card. Then they talked, Bald Spot doing most of it.

  “Confirmed that the two suits are officers,” Jorge said. “The bigger guys are private. The question is, working for who?”

  After another minute of talking, the two men from the Ford got back in their car and drove away. Curly took his hand out from the inside of his suit, and then he and Bald Spot walked back to their car. All of a sudden, both men looked up.

  All three of us stepped back.

  “Time to go.” Jorge headed back inside.

  We followed as he went over to a second, identical duffel bag near the entryway. It was open, and he pulled out two handguns. “Here are Glock 18s, just like you practiced with.” He passed one to each of us.

  It felt comfortable in my hand, but I always felt a tinge of nervousness whenever I handled a gun, knowing there was the possibility I’d have to use it against someone. That feeling could cause hesitation, which was life-threatening for me and the team. Yet I hadn’t been able to shake it, no matter how much I practiced.

  “Neither of you is licensed to carry in the US, and we don’t have time right now to register you,” Jorge said.

  Sue and I nodded.

  “I have full trust that both of you can handle them safely and effectively.” He surveyed us. “Nick, hide it behind your back under your shirt and belt. And you, Sue … why do you barely ever carry a purse? It would be much easier to carry it in one. Your shirts are always too short.”

  Sue’s T-shirt barely reached the top of her shorts, which had pockets, but too small to conceal a gun.

  Jorge took the gun back from her. “I’ll give it to you after you change or get a purse.”

  “Jeez.” Sue looked annoyed. “I never thought of that when I got dressed this morning.”

  “You’ll have to start thinking about that from now on,” Jorge said.

  CHAPTER 17

  May 10, 2003

  Yesterday evening Lorraine had gone shopping with Sue for a purse that she could conceal her Glock in.

  I’d done a shift with Lee, and then Jorge relieved me at 2:00 a.m. Everyone wanted to attend Jack’s funeral, but we always needed to have someone with Lee at the hospital, so Lorraine volunteered.

  The rest of us, dressed in black, filed into the rented minivan when Jorge pulled up to the hotel entryway.

  My suit was too warm for the hot day. Too bad; I’d have to suck it up.

  We traveled south on I-75 in late-morning traffic.

  “I didn’t know Jack was religious,” I said to Ivan, who was sitting next to me.

  “I never thought to ask,” he replied.

  Rose turned her head toward us from the front passenger seat. “Jack’s family is Catholic from way back, but only his late mother practiced.”

  “The gray Chevy is back there again,” Sue said. “No sign of the Ford.”

  It took us about twenty minutes to get to the Saint Thomas Aquinas Catholic Church. The closest parking spot we could find was two blocks away.

  The humid heat on the street made everyone perspire. There was no sign of where our shadow had parked, or of where they were watching us from.

  Along the way we passed news vans setting up—three were local and one was from GMNN.

  We stopped across the street from the church, taking shelter under the shade of a large oak tree. Sunday mass had just ended, and worshippers were exiting the front doors.

  “They’ll be setting up for the funeral now,” Rose said. “It’ll take a few minutes.”

  I wondered if Rose was religious. Probably. After the time we’d all spent together, we still didn’t know many personal details. I blamed it on the circumstances.

  The church was a large four-story structure made of limestone. In the front there was a round, ornately patterned window set into the façade, and at the very top of the steep roof stood a cross. Between the two sets of double, wood-stained doors was a statue of Jesus. The church wasn’t the size and grandeur of Europe’s cathedrals, yet it was still impressive.

  Out front on the street was a hearse and a row of black limousines stretching down the block. It made me feel out of place and outclassed, thinking of us having to park our minivan far away and wearing regular off-the-rack clothing. That feeling faded when I reminded myself as to how most of the people in the limos made their money.

  “I hope the church is air conditioned,” Sue said.

  “I doubt it.” Rose pulled a paper fan from her brown purse, unfolded it with a flick of her wrist, and waved it in front of her face. “But it’ll be cooler than out here.”

  “Good idea to bring a fan,” I said.

  “A southern woman must always be prepared.” Rose gave a coy look.

  Sue smirked. “A Pacific Northwest woman comes only with a rain jacket.”

  People began approaching from both sides of the street to congregate at the front entrance. A group of reporters stood on the left, half with cameramen at their sides.

  After about ten minutes, a man in a dark suit opened the wooden front doors to let people inside. Wealthy people poured out of the limousines and approached the church. The reporters sprang into action, but few stopped to talk to them.

  We waited for the line to end before we entered.

  It was cooler inside. There were long rows of wooden benches that faced a pulpit with gold etching. Above was a large statue of Jesus on a cross and three men kneeling a
t his feet. Tall spindly iron stands held white candles. On either side were alcoves with sculptures and stained glass windows depicting angelic scenes.

  At the foot of the pulpit was a black casket, closed, with a framed picture of a younger Jack, smiling.

  It hit me even harder that we’d never see Jack again. Why did awful things happen to such good people?

  We sat down in the second-to-last row.

  By the time the priest appeared, the church was packed with hundreds of people. The latecomers had to stand at the sides and back. Everyone looked solemn.

  “Do you recognize anyone?” I asked Jorge, who was to my right, next to the aisle.

  Jorge half stood to look forward. “I can see Jack’s son and daughter at the front, and Malcolm and his sister.”

  “I didn’t know Jack had a sister.”

  “She’s the youngest, in her early sixties,” Jorge said. “I’ve never met her, only seen pictures at Jack’s place.”

  Sue, who was on my left, took my hand. I glanced at her, and she seemed about to cry, which added to my fighting back tears of my own.

  The priest talked about Jack’s life and about God. I was only listening to parts, fading in and out of my own thoughts of Jack. He’d been a unique individual. He tried to make the world a better place and fight the greed and corruption that had given him power in the first place.

  As for me, I wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for Jack. I squeezed Sue’s hand—her either. Jack had provided us with protection, resources, and information. Even in his passing he was providing for us. I was going to miss the guidance he gave me.

  I focused on what was going on. Jack’s son was talking at the front about a childhood memory at the ranch he grew up on. He was a younger version of his father; tall, lean, standing very straight, a full head of hair, but not a buzz cut. He must’ve been in his mid forties. He had an inward smile as he shared with the mourners how his father had taught him how to rope a steer and how terrible he was at it. Then he told a story of Jack’s compassion for animals and about their family dog. His face turned to grief when he ended, saying he hadn’t seen much of his father the last few years and regretted it. He’d been working with his uncle Malcolm and hadn’t always seen eye to eye with his dad. He loved him. “Why was he taken from us in this way?”

  Jack’s son saying he was working with his uncle Malcolm in the banking industry answered a lot of questions as to why we’d heard very little about him.

  Malcolm was next at the pulpit. He was four years younger than Jack with similar features, an identical buzz cut, but a stiffer cadence to his Texan drawl. The way his suit hung, his look and posture reeked of power and wealth. Malcolm spoke of Jack without emotion, as if he were just an acquaintance and nothing more. He recited Jack’s accomplishments throughout his life but stopped short of the last few years. Malcolm didn’t mention anything like he missed his brother or was sad that he’d been killed. He ended with, “He had a prosperous life.”

  The priest came back and begun to speak in religious terms.

  I zoned out to my own thoughts again. Had Malcolm had a part to play in the ordering of Jack’s death? He was in tight with Schmidt IV, Lovemark, and Da Silva, just not as much in the forefront as them. He was at the top of the World Bank and the US Federal Reserve. He controlled the flow of money, thus needing to stay in the background and look legitimate in every way—even more so than the other Club members. But could he have secretly allowed or even ordered the killing of his brother?

  After two more relatives who spoke kindly of Jack and a last psalm reading from the Bible by the priest, the ceremony was over. Everyone stood as they wheeled the casket past on the way to the hearse. Jack’s son was one of the pallbearers.

  Since we were at the back, we had to wait for all the rows in front of us to clear. The crowd was older, with only a few small children visible. Two of those children were with the woman who had been seated next to Jack’s son and therefore, I assumed, were his family. Behind them walked an elegant and well-groomed lady in her forties. She had a Carter family resemblance, so she must’ve been Jack’s daughter. She was holding hands with a heavyset man who had to be several years older than her.

  Malcolm was next in line with a classy-looking woman beside him. The pearls around her long neck stood out against her sleeveless, knee-length black dress.

  Four people behind Malcolm and his wife walked Davis Lovemark.

  “Didn’t think he’d show up,” I whispered to Sue.

  “Look,” Sue whispered back. “That’s his wife?”

  Beside Lovemark was a short, pudgy woman, who wore a calf-length black dress and an array of glistening jewellery. Even though her clothing and accessories had to be expensive, she looked frumpy and walked in an awkward fashion as if not used to the heels she had on. Her face was stern, accentuating wrinkles around her eyes and forehead. She stumbled, and Lovemark placed a stiff hand against her back. She said something to him—I couldn’t make out what—but I caught a New York accent with a high-pitched, nasally tone. He seemed annoyed.

  At that moment Lovemark and I made eye contact. He sneered and gave me a slight nod of acknowledgement.

  Jorge tensed as Lovemark passed by.

  “That’s not at all what I’d expected Lovemark’s wife to look like,” Sue said.

  Next was the suave-looking Carlo Da Silva, facing straight ahead. I’d never met him and only seen pictures. He had strong features—prominent nose, thick lips, and a cleft chin with a dimple. His thick, wavy dark hair that was graying at the temples was somewhat unruly. The woman beside him had to be Spanish, too, and she was stunning. She was tall and slim with long, straight black hair and flawless, tanned skin. She carried herself as if she knew she was very beautiful.

  “I’m surprised Da Silva came to the funeral as well,” Sue said, as it was finally our turn to leave the church.

  “Yes,” Ivan said behind her. “Yet I did not see Hendrick Schmidt’s son.”

  Interesting. I wondered if that meant anything.

  Outside, Lovemark was giving an interview to the GMNN crew, and a few others were talking to the media.

  The hearse was preparing to leave, and occupants were gathering at their limousines to join the procession.

  We hurried our pace to the minivan, so as to not get too far behind everyone else.

  As we drove, Jorge explained that the cemetery was small, old, and private. Jack’s wife and her family had all been buried there. He wanted to be next to Connie. Jack didn’t want to be buried with the rest of the Carters in Houston.

  It took ten minutes to get there, parking behind a long row of cars.

  The afternoon sun bore down. Luckily, there were large trees to provide shade. We followed others toward the gathering in the distance. Turning onto a path, the smell of dust came up from the fine gravel as everyone walked on it. The earthen particles mixed with the moisture being sucked from the grass by the heat. I stepped on an underground sprinkler head. They had to use large amounts of water to keep the well-manicured grounds so green.

  We came to stand at the back of the crowd of about a hundred people gathered in front of a family crypt of around five hundred square feet. It was made of weathered concrete and covered with ivy that had spread up the sides and top, making it look creepy.

  “Jack’s wife’s family must be rich too,” Sue said, from beside me.

  “That’s obvious.” I could see the edge of the open door from our angle but couldn’t make out the surname etched in the stone above it.

  “I’m going to do some research on her family when I have time,” Sue said.

  Rose and Ivan moved close to us. Jorge stood a few steps back.

  “Do you recognize any people here, Rose?” I asked.

  “Just the whole family over there.” Rose nodded toward the side of the crypt entry.

  Ivan motioned to the right with his head. “Next to Lovemark and Da Silva over there are Ivgeni Svetlov, a Russian banker, and Thomas
Crane.”

  “Sue, did you ever have time to do some in-depth digging on Crane?” I asked.

  Sue shook her head. “It was the next thing on my list the day we got shot at in Burford.”

  The priest, followed by the pallbearers, approached the crypt. The priest moved to the side as the pallbearers continued taking Jack’s encased body inside.

  That was it. It felt like one more shining light had been extinguished by unscrupulous powers as the world inched closer to darkness.

  After the pallbearers came out, the priest said a prayer from scripture and a few final kind words. The crowd was stoic, with some audible grief being shed.

  Sue and Rose had been weeping. There were two tears running down Ivan’s cheeks, and I felt one run down mine. Jorge stood straight and grit his teeth.

  As people began to wander away, through a gap in the mourners I saw the FBI officers that had interrogated us at the hospital. Interesting.

  “Hello, Mr. Barnes.”

  I hadn’t noticed the two men come up. Blood flushed my face. “Mr. Lovemark.”

  “You haven’t met my colleague and friend in person, but I believe you know of him, like he knows of you.” Lovemark placed his hand on the shoulder of the slightly shorter yet stockier man next to him. “May I introduce Carlo Da Silva.”

  “We finally meet.” Da Silva had a very strong Spanish accent and a noticeable lisp. His dark eyes were intimidating. “However, in unfortunate circumstances.” He extended his right hand.

  I didn’t know what to do, so I shook it. “Nice to meet you.” Nice! Why did I say ‘nice’?

  Jorge stood so close to me our shoulders touched. Sue was next to me on the other side, and Ivan right next to her. Only Rose took a step back from us.

  “Ms. Clark, we haven’t been formally introduced,” Lovemark said, and then he looked at Ivan. “Dr. Popov.”

  Da Silva nodded at both of them.

  “So what will all of you do now that Jack has passed?” Lovemark said. “You don’t have the money or the means to fight us any longer … nor, I bet, the motivation.”