by Peter Parkin
Bill laughed. “Oh, I don’t have time for that. My life’s a nightmare of business deals, and I travel so much. I couldn’t do justice to a relationship.”
“Forgive me for asking this, but are you gay?”
“God, no! Do I seem gay to you?”
“No, not at all. But, it’s common and more accepted these days, so it would be nothing to be ashamed of.”
Bill smirked at her. “Well, I’m not. But I want you to teach me some cooking skills tomorrow, so I hope that doesn’t reinforce your suspicion.”
Sheila laughed. “Okay, so you’re not gay. Instead, you’re a rich, handsome, and incredibly powerful international investment banker. And, you’re all alone. One hell of a catch, I would say.”
Bill shook his head.
“Not that great a catch, my dear niece. I’ve been closed off for most of my life. Unable to show another side of me—a side I hope is deep down in there somewhere, but I find it hard to bring it out.”
Sheila uncurled her legs and leaned forward on the couch.
“You just need practice, and you don’t realize it, but, you show that side to me and the boys all the time. And my mom says that you’re one of the kindest men in her life.”
“Well, she’s my sister—she has to say that. And you’re my niece—you’re obligated, too.”
Sheila shook her head. “No, I’m not obligated at all. If I didn’t feel that way, why would I always look for ways to spend time with you? You’re my favorite uncle.”
Bill got up and threw another log on the fire.
“Maybe you just have some sense of missionary zeal. I’m a never-ending project for you ladies.”
“I’ve seen that gentle, caring side of you many times in my life. You’re being too hard on yourself, and maybe because you’re so used to being a hard-nosed businessman you don’t even recognize that other side of you when it does show itself.”
He sat back down and nodded. “Maybe.”
“I saw the caring side of you just a few days ago. In your office. You crawled down onto the floor and cradled me. I felt like a baby. You have no idea how much I needed that from you at that moment. I was so scared and kind of in shock.”
Bill lowered his eyes, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He whispered, “God, I was so worried about you, Sheila. I’m glad you’re okay.”
Wincing in frustration, she retorted, “You’re missing the point. You gave me what I needed without me even asking. That side of you came out, that side that you never give yourself credit for. I’ve always seen you as a caring and generous uncle. But, also, so very strong. I feel safe around you, and my mom has said the same thing. You made her feel safe when you were all growing up together. Uncle Brad never gave her that same feeling—you were different. The brother she could always count on to defend her. And you did it for me that night in your office. Bill, how the hell were you able to fight like that? I’ve never seen anything like it! You were like a machine; those two guys were dead in a matter of seconds. I was horrified, but…fascinated. Proud of my uncle.”
Bill felt uncomfortable talking about it. Wished she hadn’t seen him in action like that.
“That’s a side of me that I really never wanted you to see, Sheila. You know I attended West Point. That’s where I learned skills like that. That school is top notch in so many ways, and when you graduate from there you come out well-rounded physically as well as mentally.”
“Maybe you can teach me some self-defence techniques some time?”
“Sure. We can start tomorrow. Good idea.”
Sheila paused for a few seconds. “You never joined the army. Aren’t you supposed to serve as an officer after graduating from West Point?”
Bill took a sip from a glass of Grand Marnier that was sitting on the table.
“Well, yes and no. I was in kind of an elite division that taught all of those military skills and the art of war—all that bullshit. And, of course, all divisions of West Point give a full university education as well. But, the division I was in was more of a targeted one. We were supposed to be the gifted ones, groomed for paths in life other than military.”
Bill paused for a moment before continuing. “I guess the way they looked at it was that war could be fought on many fronts—not just on the battlefield. War is simply about winning, and dominance—those can be achieved on the battlefield, but sometimes they can be achieved more effectively in boardrooms, scientific labs, manufacturing plants, and in election campaigns. The military is all about supremacy, and only a small part of it is actual combat. That’s just the most visible part, the part that everyone sees on the news. But, the public doesn’t consider that every time someone like me pulls off a major international acquisition providing extra leverage and power to an American company, that’s also a battle won.”
His niece tilted her head, encouraging him to continue.
“Or, when an engineer in a lab invents a high-tech weapon that puts extra fear into the hearts of our enemies, that’s a battle won as well. And, think of strong leaders that we put into positions of power in Congress or the White House—those are soldiers for the cause, and if they’re smarter and more devious than leaders of other countries—voila—another battle won. And all those battles would be fought and won without firing a shot.”
Sheila stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Wow, I never thought of it that way before. So, they intended you gifted ones for the brainier battles; those battles that didn’t involve traipsing around in the mud with machine guns slung over your shoulders.”
Bill nodded, and replied with sarcasm dripping from his tongue, “I guess they didn’t want to take a chance on having our valuable brains splattered all over the desert sands. Best to save that for the lower IQs.”
“You’re sounding cynical, Bill.”
He shook his head. “No, just realistic now after all these years. And, reflective I guess. Wondering what all that grooming caused me to give up, or what I’ve sold my soul for.”
Sheila got up and stood with her back to the fire.
“Why did those burglars try to kill us? Why didn’t they just take what they wanted?”
Bill got up as well and walked over to the bar. Poured himself another drink. He gestured to her. “Do you want one?”
“No, thanks. I’m going to bed in a few minutes.”
He walked over to the fireplace and stood beside her.
“I don’t know why they attacked us. They didn’t have guns on them, probably because they were afraid of the noise. So, perhaps they thought it was easier to kill us than try to restrain us. Knives are easier to defend against than guns so maybe they thought their best tactic was to just to take us down.”
Sheila frowned. “But what did you have that was worth stealing? You don’t keep money there, nothing of real value. Unless, perhaps, they wanted your computer for insider financial information?”
Bill hugged her. “You should head off to bed. They’re dead now, not a worry anymore. Who knows what their motivation was—could be the computer, you might be right.”
“Okay.” Sheila hugged him back. “Goodnight, Bill. Thanks for saving my life.”
He laughed. “Hey, I just wanted to enjoy your cooking for a few more years.”
“Well, I owe you that now for the rest of your life.”
She turned and headed towards the staircase. Bill called after her.
“And, it’s about time you started dating again, my dear. It’s been two years now. You’re so worried about me, but I’m kinda worried about you, too.”
Sheila turned around and smiled. “I might start soon, uncle dear. I have my eye on someone—I’ll tell you about him tomorrow.”
Bill watched her climb the stairs then sat back down on the couch.
While staring at the flames dancing in the fireplace hearth, he could feel his brain
doing its own little dance.
The problem with having an IQ off the charts, was that his brain never stopped working. It always challenged, always questioned, and whenever there were dots to connect they just connected almost by themselves.
The NYPD had accepted the fact that the burglars were just there to steal. And that their easiest way to steal was to get rid of the two occupants of the office.
The regular cleaners had been found tied and gagged in a closet near the lunchroom. Stripped of their uniforms.
The thugs could have indeed been burglars. Yes, that was possible.
But, they were Anglos with expensive haircuts, while the normal cleaners at the office were Hispanic. So, if they were burglars, would they actually masquerade as cleaners? Their shoes were shiny and Italian. And, they were articulate—at least the one guy who’d done the talking.
They didn’t fit the mold. They seemed more…professional.
The police found no identification on them, which was odd. They were going to check their fingerprints in the database, but Bill suspected they’d find nothing.
And, to immediately try to kill him and Sheila said to Bill that they knew something about him. Like, they knew that he wouldn’t be an easy target to restrain. As if they already knew he was a lethal weapon. If so, how did they know?
And, for this to happen right on the heels of John Nichols’ suicide seemed too much of a coincidence. Too hard to swallow.
There were three things that he and John Nichols had in common.
They’d both attended West Point.
They’d both been in the gifted program known as the Honor Guild.
And they’d both been in the van the night of that young girl’s death.
Along with three other guys.
Bill thought about those other guys. Hank Price worked with Boeing in Seattle. Lloyd Franken was down at NASA in Houston. And Lincoln Berwick was a senator, now running for President of the United States.
Bill still kept in touch with Hank and Lloyd from time to time. But, he hadn’t seen or talked to Lincoln since graduation.
Bill’s brain was still churning.
He knew enough about politics to know that the profession attracted some of the biggest narcissists imaginable.
People who felt they were entitled.
And, because they spent their lives feeling entitled, they usually had skeletons in their closets.
He couldn’t even count how many scandals had broken out over the last decade or so, ruining the careers of promising politicians. It was almost like an epidemic in Washington.
What happened in that van was one of the most disgusting and tragic things imaginable. It had haunted Bill over the years, and may have even contributed to his avoidance of closeness and intimacy. He’d never forgotten that poor girl and his role in her death, even though he’d tried real hard to wipe it from his mind.
He was sure the other guys had never forgotten either.
One was now dead of an apparent suicide.
Bill himself had almost died the other night.
Of the four of them still alive, which one had the most to lose if this incriminating skeleton ever crawled out of the van?
Had John Nichols been a loose end?
Was Bill a loose end?
Were the others?
Was the attempted robbery just a coincidence?
Bill stoked the fire, spreading out the embers to allow it to burn out faster.
It was time for bed.
He knew that his REM sleep would be active tonight—assembling all of the information into illogical patterns, only to be sorted out nicely by his conscious state when he awakened in the morning.
Regardless, he was pretty certain he already knew the answers to the questions.
14
“…and here it is almost Christmas, but, Americans can’t even make a trip to the shopping mall without worrying about being shot or blown up. Trust me, the threats are real, and they’re going to get worse. ISIS is the most well-equipped terrorist organization the world has ever seen, and they’re everywhere. Don’t delude yourselves into thinking they won’t hit us again.
“The present leadership is not taking the threat seriously. Despite the Boston Marathon bombing, the Quincy Market massacre, and countless mass shootings at shopping malls, nightclubs, theaters and schools, we are not safer today than we were before 9/11. Your government tries to convince you that you are, but they’re wrong. Dead wrong.”
Senator Lincoln Berwick paused for effect, and gazed out over the 5,000 people crammed into the convention center.
He couldn’t even remember the name of the place—some godforsaken facility in downtown Toledo. A decrepit city that he’d never bother to visit if he weren’t running for president.
And, as his eyes absorbed the tank tops, torn jeans, and baseball caps adorning his rapt audience, he silently admonished himself for the slumming he was forcing himself to do.
These weren’t the type of people that he could ever relate to, but, he was doing his damnedest anyway to convince them that he was the type of guy they could sit down and have a beer with. And, he knew this crowd probably drank beer—lots of it.
He’d made sure to dress down for this speech—which he’d actually had to do for most of his speeches. The electorate that he was appealing to were, by and large, angry rednecks.
So, he’d worn jeans, a golf shirt, and a tweed blazer. Still far better dressed than his audience and his jeans didn’t have holes in them, but, he looked like he could sort of blend in while still maintaining a presidential air.
Linc was adept at relating to whatever audience he was speaking to. He had a little help from his campaign manager, Bob Stone, of course, but most of the time Linc could adapt to the audience in tune with his own instincts.
He was a skilled public speaker and in this day and age of image over substance, the ability to speak with hypnotizing charisma was the one skill that could almost always guarantee success.
Linc was in the final throes of his speech, and the audience mainly consisted of Republican voters getting fired up for the primaries, which would start in a couple of months’ time. Right now, it was just a beauty contest, with Linc vying for attention and affection against five other candidates.
All fifty states and the offshore territories would hold primaries or caucuses until the summer. The winner should be evident by the time of the July convention.
He knew that it would be pretty much a cakewalk. So, he was looking ahead to the fall election campaign against the Democratic nominee, because as far as he was concerned he would be the Republican nominee.
No doubt about it.
The Republican Party wouldn’t be happy if Linc were the winner—and they were also out of the loop with respect to the group of people behind his campaign. And, no doubt they wouldn’t approve if they were in the loop.
It was really just a party within a party, and the tried and true Republicans had no clue whatsoever as to what was going on. They were good people, but a bit naïve. The power behind Lincoln’s campaign was unstoppable. The GOP would never be the same again.
As for the five other Republican candidates, three of them were plants.
Boris Malkin had done his job well.
All three were capable, but more in need of money than power.
Numbered bank accounts in the Cayman Islands took care of that for them. Deposits made in advance and agendas provided. All three would be as rich as sin, but would voluntarily take dives.
They would campaign their little hearts out, but then begin making one gaffe after another, deliberately embarrassing themselves in the primaries. They would be toast by the time the convention rolled around.
The fix was in.
The only candidates that Linc had to worry about were the two serious ones—the
real candidates. The idealistic governor of Florida and an annoyingly intelligent senator from Ohio. Ohio was the state that Linc was speaking in today—he wanted to hit the guy on his home turf.
Linc was pretty certain he could beat both of these bozos, but Boris had promised some help.
Insurance policies.
Boris wasn’t able to find any real dirt on either of them, but a well-oiled machine of operatives had been working hard behind the scenes to create back-stories on each of the two candidates.
For the Florida governor, it would be a financial scandal—kickbacks and payoffs. Not real, of course, but it would sound real—real enough to derail the guy’s campaign.
And for the Ohio senator, it would be a sexual thing. Once again, contrived, but damaging as hell. Those stories would be leaked over the next few months.
Drip, drip, drip…
Senator Lincoln Berwick would be the last man standing by the time the convention rolled around.
Next stop—the general election in November against the Democrat nominee. The world was unfolding as it should.
After that, the White House.
Linc pictured himself sitting in the Oval Office, commanding.
He could almost taste the power, the ability to affect events anywhere in the world where he chose to. It was downright orgasmic.
Shivers ran down his spine just thinking about it. The most overwhelming military on the planet at his fingertips, the ability to nuke countries that dared to defy the entitlement of the United States of America.
All of the pansies who’d occupied the Oval Office, in the generations since Truman, had shown nothing but weakness—a reluctance to brandish the most terrifying weapon imaginable. Well, Lincoln Berwick wouldn’t be that kind of president.
What was the point of having the most sophisticated nuclear weapons imaginable and not use them? Especially since they’d been refined to be more tactical now. No longer was there the worry that radioactive contamination would devastate entire continents. They could be used selectively now, annihilate some rogue nation and leave the rest unscathed.