by Peter Parkin
Not one of the experts interviewed ventured that it was a directed energy weapon, a pulse emitter. The PEP did of course use an infrared laser, but the laser’s involvement only served to start the reaction that forced rapidly expanding plasma towards the chosen target, faster than the speed of light. Enough plasma to totally disintegrate anything in its path.
Painless deaths, and not the least bit messy.
Vito surmised that his Cosa Nostra ancestors would have loved a weapon like this—no muss, no fuss. No bodies lying in the streets, no bullet-riddled cars, or blood-spattered suits.
Some media were so freaked out over the incident that they’d broached the outrageous subject of alien abduction.
Even if Whitfield and Stone hadn’t been with the Berwick campaign, this incident would have been front page news. Because, it was just so sensational—and just so weird.
But, as it involved two top strategists for the leading presidential candidate, it made the story international in scope.
New conspiracy theories were being spun by the day, and the one that seemed to have the most legs was that it had been an assassination attempt on Berwick himself. That, the killers thought he was in the car.
Vito laughed to himself over that one. There was no need to kill Berwick; he was going to be done in without a bullet being fired, or plasma being directed.
No, Berwick was far more effective just being left in place, twisting and turning during the final leg of the campaign, giving voters a clear choice.
A bruised and battered Berwick, or a fresh, clean and honest Beech.
Voters didn’t like uncertainty, and while Berwick was leading in the polls for now, that would change overnight. He would flounder in the final weeks, due in no small part to what Vito was going to do today in this café.
The café was in the Brooklyn area of New York, just a block away from a private Catholic school run by priests and nuns.
His guest for coffee today was Simon Coburn, the chief news director for the third largest cable news network in the country.
Vito had summoned him to meet at 3:30, being respectful enough to schedule the meeting location close to where Simon picked up his eight-year-old daughter, Wendy, every day from the Catholic school.
Simon was a single father, and had struggled over the last few years following the premature death of his wife and the illness of his daughter.
A sad story, and, to a point—but, only to a point—Vito did indeed feel sorry for him. Simon had become a business opportunity for Vito, just one of many media executives he controlled. And controlling the media and the messages being splashed out there for public consumption were the most powerful weapons of all.
Vito laughed out loud. Well, maybe the second most powerful weapon, now that he’d seen what the PEP could do.
The door to the private room opened and in walked Simon, escorted by one of Vito’s burly guards. He rose from the table, and waved his hand in the air signalling the guard to leave the room.
Simon’s steps were tentative as he walked up to Vito to shake his outstretched hand.
“I hope you can make this quick, Vito.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to pick up Wendy soon.”
“Sit down. I won’t keep you too long. I wouldn’t want to keep Wendy waiting. You’re a good father, Simon. You’ve had to do double-duty since Leslie’s passing, and I admire you for that. Family is everything.”
“Thanks, Vito. It’s been hectic lately, too. What with the presidential campaign in its final weeks and the television debates about to start. Not to mention that strange incident in Baltimore. We’re scrambling trying to cover that. But, how can we cover something so strange? There are no explanations for what happened, and it’s put Berwick’s campaign in kind of a negative spotlight right now. He’s trying to spin it as an attempt by someone to stop his campaign, attempting to cast some suspicion on Beech’s team. It’s a puzzler, that’s for sure.”
Vito chuckled, and adjusted the knot of his red silk tie. “You news types love this kind of stuff. Great for ratings.”
“Great for sleepless nights is more like it.”
Vito poured Simon a cup of coffee from the thermos sitting on the table.
“Have a sip of java. It’s strong, and should give you enough of a jolt to get you through the next few hours.”
“Thanks. So, what did you want to see me about?”
Vito reached into his briefcase and pulled out a video cassette player.
Simon laughed. “There’s a fossil if I’ve ever seen one!”
“The recording is on an old cassette. I didn’t bother to convert it, because there’s nothing better than an original.”
“What’s this all about?”
“In short, the end of Berwick’s campaign.”
Vito clicked Play.
After the five-minute recording was finished, Simon sat back in his chair and rubbed the temples of his forehead.
“You want me to release this?”
“Yes.”
Simon sighed. “I can’t do that, Vito. This is an uncorroborated recording.”
“The names are cited on the tape—the girl’s name and Berwick’s name. And even though the tape is old, it’s easy to tell that it’s Berwick’s voice. Simon, he raped and caused the death of a fourteen-year-old girl. You don’t think the public deserves to learn what a monster he is?”
“Vito, no argument there. But, we have rules of engagement. I can’t name you as the source, I can’t say where this tape came from, and I can’t verify that it’s legitimate. Can you at least connect me with the man who made this recording? I can use him as a named or unnamed source.”
“He’s dead.”
“Well, then, there’s nothing I can do, Vito. I’m sorry.”
“You could simply say that the tape was mailed to you from an anonymous source.”
“It’s still unverified. Irresponsible journalism. And nothing less than a smear job against a politician.”
“Do you want that lunatic to be your next president?”
“That’s not the point. I can’t ignore ethics and jeopardize my network’s reputation just because I don’t like a candidate.”
“Yes, you can.”
Vito rested two massive hands on the table, clenched his fingers together and cracked his knuckles—the sound reverberating around the walls of the small room.
“Let’s take a little walk down memory lane, Simon.
“When Leslie was dying of that heart disorder, your insurance ran out. In desperation, you went to a loan shark, paying 100% percent interest, eventually crippling you. You’ll recall that the loan shark worked for us. I erased your debt, and paid for Leslie’s heart surgery. Alas, it failed, and she died anyway.”
Vito noticed that Simon’s face had turned a bright shade of red, and his hands were starting to tremble.
“Then you discovered, through a very astute doctor’s observation, that Wendy had the same heart disorder as Leslie. A genetic pass-through. You had no money left. I stepped up for you and paid the $500,000 for her heart transplant. Wendy now has a new heart and a long life ahead of her—because of me.”
Simon lowered his eyes. “I’ve always been grateful to you for that, Vito.”
“Being grateful isn’t enough. I own you. I didn’t do it because you’re a nice guy—even though you are. I didn’t do it because I like you—even though I do. You know these things, you’re not a stupid man.”
Simon looked up, tears clouding his eyes. “I’d get fired if I did this. What good would I be to you then?”
Vito shook his head.
“I wouldn’t need you anymore. This would be the coup de grace, above and beyond all the other things you’ve done for me. So, let them fire you. But, I’ll assure you of this—if you do what I’m asking of you, we’ll take care of you. You�
�ll never have to work again, I can assure you.”
“How do I know that?”
Vito’s face twisted into a grimace of feigned hurt.
“Now you insult me. I’ve always been true to my word, and I pulled out all the stops to make sure that Wendy didn’t die. You’ll just have to trust me. One thing about the Cosa Nostra, Simon—correction, two things—information is the first currency to us, and the second currency is our word. We are always true to our word. If we promise a favor, we deliver. If we promise someone they’re going to die, they die. As well, you and I are both good Catholic boys. There’s a certain honor with us Catholics.”
Simon looked at his watch. “Oh, you’ve just reminded me. I have to run. Need to pick up Wendy. I’ll consider your request.”
Vito pushed the release button on the cassette player, and handed the tape to Simon.
“No, you won’t consider it. You’ll do it. I expect this recording to be splashed all over the news tomorrow.”
Simon made a face and reluctantly took the tape, shoving it into his suit pocket.
“I said I’ll consider it.”
Vito rose from his chair and motioned Simon to follow him to the back of the meeting room. He pulled up the blinds, exposing a clear view to the street behind.
“Take a look, Simon.”
Outside, standing on the street, was sweet little Wendy. She was holding an ice cream cone. Beside her, with an arm around her slender shoulders, was a priest.
Vito smiled at the sight. “Isn’t she cute? You must be so proud. I knew you’d be pressed for time today, so I arranged for Father Angelo to pick her up from school for you.”
Simon stared straight ahead, unblinking. “I’ve never met a Father Angelo at her school.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have. Angelo’s not really a priest; he just likes to dress up in priestly costumes once in a while. Has some lovely robes, too. Funny thing about our religion, Simon—kids raised in Catholic families and who attend Catholic schools, tend to put priests up on a pedestal. That collar gives them saintly status, particularly in the eyes of an eight-year-old girl.”
Vito’s voice took on an ugly tone. “With all that we adults now know about the decades of child abuse by some of those perverts, kids really shouldn’t trust priests at all, should they? But, Catholic parents are always torn between the desire to put lipstick on a pig, versus protecting their kids. It’s a real conundrum for them. Inevitably, they still choose the lipstick.”
52
The roar of the rotors was overpowering despite the earphones. Designed to be able to communicate with the pilot, but also to dull the sound. But they didn’t work on the sound dulling thing, and Sandy had no desire to communicate with the pilot. So, he pulled them off because they were just darn annoying.
He looked out through the small side window of the helicopter and noticed that they were passing over Cape Cod, out to the open sea. A yacht was the apparent destination—a large one. He and Vito would be alone, except for the discreet staff of twenty that his host—and whoever else used this yacht—kept around to cater to any and every need. And, Sandy figured, just to steer the darn thing.
Sandy had ditched his security staff, and taken a cab to the small Lexington municipal airport. There, the chopper was waiting for him.
While he felt strange allowing himself to be flown out over the coast to a waiting yacht, he knew it was the best thing for security. Being seen with Vito, and, heaven forbid, photographed, would be the death knell of his campaign. He knew that, but, all the same, he felt uncomfortable being stranded on a yacht with one of the top kingpins of the Boston Cosa Nostra.
The helicopter turned on its side and began a slow gradual descent towards the water. Sandy saw the yacht as the chopper began its curved approach. A massive boat. He couldn’t even begin to guess what it was worth, as he’d never even been on a yacht before. It was silver and adorned with searchlights beaming out and rotating from the sides of the hull.
He knew, from what he’d read of these super-yachts, that those lights were actually sensors that triggered an alarm inside the ship if someone approached within a predetermined range of the hull. A boat that had these security systems also apparently had escape hatches that led down to the bottom level, where a submarine waited to be dropped into the depths.
The chopper stopped its run and hovered above the ship, slowly lowering itself to a landing pad on the top promenade.
It was a beautiful night to be out on the water—warm, with the sunset pending within the next hour. Sandy wished he were here for different reasons and with a different someone. He would have at least had the benefit of enjoying himself.
He jumped down from the chopper and lowered his head. A tall man, dressed in a rain slicker for whatever reason, with an assault rifle strung over his shoulder, motioned for Sandy to follow. The man led him through a doorway to a gangway, which stretched down the entire length of the ship. They were on the top level, and from what Sandy had been able to tell from the air, the yacht had at least four levels, plus the lower hull—which presumably held the fabled submarine.
Halfway along the gangway, the guard turned left and Sandy followed him down a steep ladder to the next level. Another gangway, but this one was adorned with small chandeliers, and the floor had plush carpet instead of the industrial steel they’d clanged along on the upper level. They passed by several closed doors. Sandy guessed these were private quarters for guests or staff—probably guests, though, since this level seemed to be pretty plush.
The rain-slickered guard stopped at an open double doorway, then stood off to one side, motioning with his hand for Sandy to enter. To this point, after two gangways and one steep ladder, the guard hadn’t yet said a word. Not that Sandy was in the mood for idle chatter, but it was disarming to be treated in that fashion—particularly since everyone on this boat presumably knew who he was.
He entered the room and resisted the urge to gasp. It was large. A dining room table sat in the middle, with a large crystal chandelier hanging from a ceiling that looked like it had been painted by Michelangelo. To the right of the table was a large sitting area. Leather sofas, carved mahogany coffee and end tables, and a fully equipped bar with a long counter that would rival Coyote Ugly.
To the left of the dining room was what looked like a more casual area—a large director’s desk and several casual seating areas. There were no papers on the desk, just a large-monitor computer and an empty glass. Behind the desk, running along the upper wall, were ten TV screens, each tuned to different news and business channels.
To say the least, Sandy was overwhelmed—and a wee bit intimidated. He figured that must have been Vito’s intention.
“Welcome, Mr. President!”
Sandy whirled around at the sound of the familiar voice, just in time to see a large Mediterranean head pop up from behind the bar.
“Forgive me for startling you. I was down on my hands and knees, looking in the wine cooler for some good Italian vintages.”
Victorious, he held up two bottles.
“Found one I think you’ll enjoy. Lucky for us, I had two bottles left. A beautiful Bruno, 1993. Was supposed to have been a good year, but with this wine, any year is good.”
Sandy frowned. “Bruno?”
“Oh, sorry, that’s short for Bruno Giacosa Barolo Collina Rionda.”
Sandy chuckled. “Okay, I get now why you just call it Bruno.”
Vito walked around to the front of the bar and placed the bottles down onto the smooth marble.
“About 800 bucks a bottle. I think the long name is just to justify the long price!”
He pressed a button along the side of the bar, and almost instantly a white-coated servant appeared. Vito pointed to the bottles, and within seconds they were opened and breathing in the salty Atlantic Ocean air. The servant retrieved two glasses from the cabinet a
nd poured a small amount for Vito to taste.
He sniffed, breathed, sipped, snorted, and finally gave the thumbs up.
The servant then filled both glasses and disappeared through a side door. As he twisted his body through the narrow doorway, his jacket raised just slightly enough for Sandy to notice a holster and pistol on his hip.
Vito motioned to Sandy to take a seat at the bar. Then he sat down beside him and raised his glass in a toast. “Cheers to the next ‘leader of the free world!’”
Sandy let the man’s glass hang in the air. No toast, no friendly clink.
“I don’t intend to toast you, Vito. That’s far too civilized for a man who’s deceived me. I’ll consider it only after you’ve come clean.”
“It’s rude not to toast, Sandy.”
“It’s rude to lie to a friend, Vito.”
Vito placed his glass back on the counter without taking a sip.
“Fine, then. Ask your questions.”
Sandy took a deep breath before asking the question that he already knew the answer to. “You used my PEP weapon to kill Meagan Whitfield and Bob Stone, didn’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I trusted that in your care, Vito. It was so that I wouldn’t be discovered with it.”
Vito chuckled. “This sounds kind of like a robber being indignant about being robbed.”
“What?”
“You broke numerous laws just having that thing in your basement. So, don’t get virtuous on me. I saved you from being caught.”
“But I trusted you not to use it. As you know, I’m on leave of absence right now during the campaign, but I got a call from my boss at the Pentagon asking me for my opinion on what kind of weapon could have caused that kind of annihilation. I’m a physicist—I couldn’t lie. And, they know I’ve been working on that weapon. I had to admit that in my opinion it was a directed energy weapon. He seemed to appreciate my honesty, and I don’t think he was alarmed at all. We both agreed that some power, perhaps foreign, has such a weapon and might have decided to use it to sway the presidential race. Either in Linc’s direction in an attempt to make him a martyr, or in my direction.”