by Peter Parkin
Columbia was named after the historical icon Christopher Columbus. But Linc wasn’t impressed by that. In his opinion, Columbus was highly over-rated by history, and by all accounts, a phony. Most of the honors bestowed on the pompous prick were never even earned. Compared to a real icon, like Adolf Hitler, Columbus was a joke.
Hitler’s place in history was ruined, unfairly, as far as Linc was concerned. Sure, he was brutal and misguided, and lost control of his own vision. But his accomplishments and victories were nothing short of spectacular; now forever overshadowed by The Holocaust.
He thought back to his short trip to Argentina, and meeting the great man up close and personal. Goosebumps tickled his spine as he recalled his first image of him, rolling up in his golden wheelchair. A moment he would never forget.
Spring Valley was a private country club and none of them were members. But, because Linc was a Senator, and a presidential candidate, the club made an exception for them to play today. As they should. They also agreed to clear the course with a three hour start-time window, to make sure they had privacy during their match. Bob cut them a cheque for $20,000—out of campaign funds, naturally.
Linc chuckled to himself. Donors should be glad their hard-earned dollars were going to a worthy cause such as a day’s relaxation on a golf course, a course most donors could only dream of being able to afford to play.
The three carts pulled up to the eleventh tee box, and the golfers and their security team jumped out. Meagan motioned to the security guys, kind of a wave action with her hand. They immediately got the message and walked away from them, down the pathway along the fairway.
Linc pulled a Big Bertha out of his bag and began his practice swings. Meagan and Bob walked over to him.
“We need to talk now, Linc.”
“Can’t it wait until the nineteenth hole? Over a drink?”
“No, this is nice and private here.”
Bob took the club out of Linc’s hand. “We need your attention, Senator.”
“Alright, alright. I thought you guys wanted me to relax today. This is South Carolina primary day, and it looks like I’m going to win my third in a row. Need to unwind so I can deliver a rousing speech tonight at the convention center.”
Meagan smiled. “We’re confident you’ll be fine. And, yes, you’ll win today and in a few days, you’ll take Nevada, too. We’re on our way. But, we have some loose ends.”
“Okay, I’m all ears.”
Meagan leaned against the side of her golf cart. “I was talking with Dr. Schmidt a few days ago. It seems we had an incident at the Triple-L offices in New York. A man pretending to be a prospective customer infiltrated our screening. Was pretending to be someone else, and we suspect he was disguised as well.
“Schmidt had him hauled away to a different location, in an attempt to convince him to spill the beans as to who he was. Anyway, long story short, they must have been followed, because the warehouse was penetrated by four men. Schmidt’s two guards were shot dead. Schmidt was told by one of the men that his life was being spared and that they might ‘collect’ later. We’re thinking the plan must be extortion or something down the road.”
Linc winced. “Jesus, he’s lucky. What kind of extortion could they use?”
“The imposter might have been wired or something. Schmidt didn’t think to check him over to see if he was wearing anything.”
“Who do you think these people were?”
Meagan folded her arms across her chest. “A couple of tell-tale signs. They killed the guards execution-style. Bullets to the head, then extra shots for good measure. They seemed like pros. Also, Schmidt said that they fit the stereotype of Mafia. Big guys, dark Italian looks.”
“Mafia?”
“Yep, that’s his guess.”
Meagan pulled a photograph out of the pocket of her jacket.
“This photo was developed from the office security cameras. We think the visitor was disguised, but we wanted to know if you’ve ever seen him before. He doesn’t ring a bell with us.”
Linc took the photo and stared at it. He gulped.
Then he nodded slowly. “I know him. He has dark hair and glasses in this photo, and his cheeks look kinda puffy, but I’m 100% certain who he is. Some things can’t be disguised, not from people who have known him a lifetime.”
“So, who?”
“Sandford Beech. My old West Point classmate.”
Bob took the photo from him and looked at it. “You’re sure?”
“Yep.”
Meagan had been leaning casually against the golf cart. She pushed herself off and moved closer to Linc. “We talked about him with you the last time we met. Told you about how Dr. Beech had shaken down the deputy mayor, Christopher Clark, trying to get information about the Quincy Market attack. He told Clark he’d been tipped off by the Mafia—who Clark also has a relationship with.
“You told us to kill Clark, but leave Beech alone. That might have been poor judgement on your part, Senator.”
Linc lowered his head and nodded. “Might have been.”
“Something else we have to tell you. We sent a man out to take care of Clark the other day, in line with what you wanted. Clark’s disappeared. No one knows where he is—no sign of him at his house or cottage. He’s just gone. We phoned his office and were told that he’s away for a week attending a funeral for an aunt in New York. We did some research—he has no living aunts or uncles. So, there’s something very fishy going on here, Linc. And what’s most coincidental is that the men who raided the Triple-L warehouse sound like Mafia, and we know that both Clark and Beech have connections to the Mob.
“And now you’re telling us that the imposter at Triple-L looks like Sandford Beech. I think we can connect some dots here. Does someone have Clark in their custody? Protecting him? Interrogating him?”
Linc shuffled his feet. “I don’t know what to say.”
Bob threw a golf ball into the air and caught it behind his back. “We may have a serious problem here, Senator. Making matters worse, Clark was already involved in the early stages of our next false flag attack. Our plan was to eliminate him before he knew too much, but he knows enough. We may have to move up the timetable. And it looks like we now need to eliminate Beech as well as Clark. Assuming, of course, we ever see Clark again.”
Linc’s brain was working at warp speed now. Yes, the dots were easy to connect. He should have ordered them to kill his old friend. And he thought to himself that while all this was bad, it wasn’t as bad as the part that Meagan and Bob didn’t know about. They had no idea that he’d raped and caused the death of a fourteen-year-old girl back in his West Point days. They had no idea that there had been a tape with his voice on it, and maybe even a copy somewhere. They had no idea that Linc had already arranged through his own private security to kill John Nichols and Hank Price, and attempted to take out Lloyd Franken and Bill Tomkins.
They had no idea, and he wasn’t going to tell them, either.
35
It was a modest house on Queensberry Street in downtown Boston. Nothing fancy, but comfortable. Two stories, a nice front porch, green lawn, picket fence, private backyard.
To the uninformed observer, it was a nicely kept family home, probably occupied by dutiful parents, two well-behaved kids, a dog, and maybe a cat. There was even a bicycle strapped to the front porch railing, and a swing set in the back garden—just to complete the mirage of a family home.
But instead, it was a Cosa Nostra safe house, occupied from time to time by some of the most despicable characters imaginable.
Vito Romano had told Sandy that they had several homes like this throughout the Boston metropolis. But he liked this one best because it was only a few blocks south of Fenway Park.
Which meant the neighborhood was fairly busy—not isolated by any stretch of the imagination. Which made it safe
r.
And, when he wanted to see a Red Sox game, it was ideal for him as a place to sack out after a few beers with the boys. He could do the leisurely stroll to Fenway from the house, and then stagger back again after he was shit-faced.
So, while the house occasionally hosted shady criminals and dishonest politicians, once in a while it was simply a ball game landing pad for the executives of Boston’s Ferrara crime family.
Christopher Clark had been a “guest” at the house for several days now. Guarded by two burly guys who were adept at not only keeping the house clean and tidy, but also at cooking great pasta.
Clark was not a prisoner—there was no need for that. He wasn’t handcuffed or restrained in any way. The man was scared out of his mind, and relieved to have escaped from what he’d understood to be certain death.
To him, Sandy was his savior, even though the man knew that Sandy had ulterior motives. He didn’t care. Which didn’t surprise Sandy in the least—once a sell-out, always a sell-out. Clark would probably sell his mother to the highest bidder.
And the fat little man was thankful that he’d cultivated his Cosa Nostra contacts, particularly with the powerful consigliere, Vito Romano. Up until now, they’d only paid him to make projects pass through red tape faster in the painfully slow bureaucracy that was the city of Boston. And he’d enabled them to cut corners below code on construction sites.
All worthwhile for the money they’d paid him, but now they were sheltering him. His cultivation had paid off.
On Monday morning, first thing, one of his guards gave him a satellite phone to use. Clark phoned his assistant and told her that his beloved aunt had died over the weekend and that he would be taking a leave of absence for a week to attend her funeral in New York.
He didn’t have an aunt or uncle any longer, but he knew that no one would check. The Mayor’s office trusted him, only God knew why. If they knew the things that he’d done, things that had now apparently caught up to him.
Sandy knew the chubby man was somewhat remorseful, as remorseful as a sociopath could be. But, he was only remorseful because he thought his deeds had almost cost him his life.
The charade that Sandy and Vito’s men had performed back at the cottage had convinced Clark that he was now a “loose end” to the Berwick Presidential Campaign; that the things he had done to make the Quincy Market slaughter happen were now a liability.
He’d been duped into thinking he’d heard one of Vito’s men back in the cottage talking to Meagan Whitfield over the phone when it was actually just Vito chuckling on the other end. But Clark was convinced that Meagan had ordered his death right then and there. Right in his own cottage.
Then, like a commando, Sandy Beech had come bursting out of the closet, saving Clark’s ass with deadly accurate shots from a massive Beretta. It was so sudden, unexpected, and terrifying, that the deputy mayor hadn’t even noticed that there wasn’t any blood.
Right now, Christopher Clark must be thinking that his entire life was in question. He’d been worried about his job, and phoning in to his office with a fake story about a funeral had been important to him.
But Sandy wondered if he’d considered the probability that he would most likely never be able to return to that job again. He figured that hadn’t sunk in to his selfish little brain yet.
It probably would once he and Vito gave him the lay of the land.
If Clark was lucky—and cooperative—he might be fortunate enough to escape prison time. He’d been complicit in the slaughter of hundreds of people, including Sandy’s entire family. But Sandy didn’t give two hoots what happened to Clark. He wanted the ones at the top, not this little man at the bottom.
Sandy parked in front of the house and saw that Vito’s black limousine had beaten him to the meeting. He and Vito were going to have a little chat with Clark today, which would set the stage for what he hoped would come next.
He walked into the house and saw that Vito and Christopher were already chatting in the living room. The guards were busy cleaning up in the kitchen. To Sandy, that seemed a paradox of the highest order. Men who had probably killed more people than he could count were actually domestic darlings.
Christopher greeted Sandy with an appreciative smile and nodded.
“I wanted to thank you again, Dr. Beech.” He turned his head towards Vito. “And you too, Vito. I wouldn’t be alive right now if it wasn’t for you two.”
Sandy swallowed hard. “Fuck off, Christopher. I don’t give a shit whether you’re alive or dead.”
Vito smiled and drained a glass of cognac. “I won’t be as crass as Sandy, Mr. Clark, but I really don’t care either.”
Clark lowered his head and shook it from side to side. “I sure have screwed up my life, haven’t I?”
Vito patted him on the back. “Yes, you have. You’ve done lots of favors for our family businesses over the years, for which I’m grateful, but you crossed the line when you helped arrange a fake terrorist attack.
“We in the Cosa Nostra may be bad in a lot of ways, and perhaps some think we have no integrity or compassion. But, they’d be wrong. Death and suffering of the innocent is not something we can justify. It makes us sick. That’s not who we are. I want justice on this almost as much as Sandy does. He lost everything because of what you and your corrupt politician friends did, and we’re on his side, not yours. This one’s a freebie.”
The consiglieri fixed Clark with a cold stare. “This time I’m not talking to you about arranging favors like in the past. I want nothing more from you. And there will be no more payments from us. You disgust me. What I’m offering you this time is a chance for you to gain some redemption and maybe save your miserable life. The people who arranged for that terrible massacre must pay. And my friend Sandy has a particular interest in this because of the deaths of his family,” he said, turning a kinder gaze on his ally.
“The people who did this can’t get away with it. You’re just small fry. We don’t care what happens to you. And even your benefactors from the Berwick campaign don’t care about you. You’re a walking dead man—you must know that by now. They tried to kill you at your cottage, and they won’t give up.”
Clark cracked his knuckles and whined, “What the hell do I do?”
Sandy jumped in. “You need to talk. To the authorities. Come clean and throw yourself on their mercy. Once that’s done, and your story is told, you’ll no longer be someone they need to kill. And, the authorities may offer you some kind of immunity, you never know. We can’t promise anything; you’ll have to strike your own deal. But, even if you end up doing time, at least you’ll be alive.”
Clark sputtered, drool dripping out of the sides of his mouth. “Who will listen to me? Who can I trust? That Berwick guy and his handlers are well connected. Look what they pulled off—one of the most horrific terror attacks ever, and they got away with it.”
Vito nodded. “Yes, they did. With your help.”
Clark suddenly started shaking. His shoulders, hands, knees.
Sandy leaned forward. “Are you okay?”
He was sobbing now. Shook his head back and forth. “No. They’re gonna…do it again.”
36
The unbearable memories of Quincy Market rushed through Sandy’s brain. Like a movie trailer, but in fast-forward. The three horse-drawn wagons, dozens of kids hurrying over with money in their hands eager for ice-cream, the doors of the wagons bursting open, machine guns spraying the crowd without discrimination.
He saw lovely Sarah, still in her chair, falling backwards, mouth open in shock, a tell-tale hole in the middle of her forehead. His adorable children, Liam and Whitney, desperately running away from the gunfire, crouching down beside one of the horses. The horse falling over on top of them, crushing them to death.
Just those last words from Christopher Clark’s ugly little mouth brought the images back, so v
ivid that Sandy thought his skull would burst from the pressure. His face felt like it was on fire from the adrenaline rush. And for the first time in his life that he could remember, he lost complete control of himself.
He lunged from his chair, and with both hands around Clark’s throat, yanked him from the couch and sent him airborne into the wall. The man crumpled to the floor, and Sandy was on him in a flash.
Grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and yanked his head up to within inches of his own. “Another one? You’ve helped them again?”
Clark started sputtering, with more of that same sickening drool coming from the corners of his mouth.
Two strong hands lifted Sandy up and away from Clark. Followed by firm but soothing words.
“That’s enough, Sandy. Leave him be.”
Sandy turned around and faced Vito. He pointed to the quivering man on the floor. “Did you hear what he said?”
“Yes. But beating the shit out of him isn’t going to help. Let him talk to us.”
Sandy took a few deep breaths and felt the rage begin to recede.
Vito directed his attention to the man on the floor.
“I’m not going to help you up, Christopher. Get off that floor and start talking. And wipe your mouth, for God’s sake. You’re making me sick.”
Clark rolled over onto his knees, but didn’t try to stand. He rested back on his haunches, and wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his mouth.
Sandy saw sweat forming on the man’s brow. And his face was redder than a bad sunburn.
Clark stayed on the floor and looked up at the two men. Breathing heavily, hands shaking, he began to speak in almost a whisper.
“A few weeks ago, they asked me to do a couple of things for them.”
“Who asked you?”
“The first request came from Bob Stone. And then a week or so later I heard from Meagan Whitfield.”