Mel must have been alarmed by his expression because she got up and set a glass of water on the table, next to the photos. “Here,” she said. She gasped and placed her hand on his shoulder.
She recognized the vans too! And why not? She had seen Gilbert’s blackened remains in the blue van after it partly exploded in the Holland Tunnel. And Richie had driven the brown van into the Lincoln Tunnel. He felt her breath on his neck as she whispered, “Those sons of bitches.”
He knew how she felt. Everything Rashid had said was true and everything they found out about the Shadow Intelligence Network was true. The SIN was the operational web of Dewer Rock and his transnational cohorts. He rubbed his eyes, blinked, and reexamined the pictures.
The last two photos showed close-ups of the vans and the limo. Mohammad was opening the driver’s door of the van Richie would drive into the Lincoln Tunnel, and was looking back at the other van, exposing his face to the camera. And the back of someone’s head could be seen in Gilbert’s van. Only brown hair showed. It could be anybody.
The last snapshot captured a close-up of the passenger side of the Rolls Royce. Moen Pindar was leaning over the open rear door, and Dewer Rock was looking up at him. Both men’s faces were caught on camera clear as day.
Richie guzzled the cool water and rolled the empty glass across his forehead. He sighed and set it on the table, next to the photos Rashid had taken over eight years ago. He rested his head on the chair back. Mel squeezed his shoulder and sat next to him.
Art leaned forward in his chair to get a better look at the photos. He flipped each one over. “The date stamps look authentic. And the headshots are clear. But—” He sighed. “Without Rashid’s testimony we can’t place him as the photographer.”
Richie gathered the photos in frustration and was about to throw them back in the shoebox when he froze. There was an envelope stuck to the bottom of the box. He couldn’t get a good grip with his bandaged hands. Mel reached in the box and pulled the envelope out. She exhaled and handed it to him. It was from the drugstore that had developed the snapshots. A dated receipt with the store’s name and address was stapled to the flap. Richie turned the envelope upside down and a strip of negatives and a yellowed piece of paper tumbled out.
Richie turned the paper over. It was a detailed list, in Rashid’s handwriting. He’d listed the names of all the subjects in the photos, and the license plates of the vehicles. Richie didn’t recognize the name of the driver in Gilbert’s van. If he were a member of the Impoverished, Richie would remember his name. He had to be a SIN operative.
Another subject for their new agency to investigate. They had so much to do. So many dots to connect. Richie couldn’t wait to get organized. He felt blood bulging in the vein in his neck. The Shadow Intelligence Network had targeted the wrong city! He’d make sure a September 11 attack never happened again. If Rashid could make such a huge contribution from the grave, there was nothing the Counter SIN Agency couldn’t accomplish!
Richie took a few quick breaths to calm down. He was about to pass the paper to Art when he noticed writing on the bottom of it. Scrolled under the license plate numbers, almost on the edge of the paper, was Rashid’s signature, under a statement that he took the pictures. He passed the paper to Art. “Rashid left us testimony after all.”
He folded his arms on the table and then rested his head. He felt his back rise and deflate as he gathered his emotions. Rashid had led him to the truth. To evidence that would put Dewer Rock and Moen Pindar in jail for the rest of their lives and expose their Shadow Intelligence Network. But could they find an uncorrupted judicial agency to prosecute?
He wouldn’t jeopardize their proof, or anyone’s life, again until he was sure they found a fair court. The Counter SIN Agency would continue investigating and watching Dewer and all the subjects they identified so even if they couldn’t put them in jail right away, they’d stop them from continuing their crimes against humanity.
Never again.
Chapter 56
Richie rolled out of bed and stretched. He hadn’t slept in his own bed in weeks, and he wasn’t used to the thin mattress. He looked around the bare room and smiled. This was the last time he’d wake up in his studio apartment. Most of his stuff was already at Eva’s apartment. She’d insisted they sleep separately last night. It was bad luck to see her before the ceremony, she’d said. He wouldn’t see her again until she entered the judge’s chambers on Mark’s arm.
After showering and shaving, Richie took his time dressing in his brand-new suit, careful not to wrinkle it. He looked in the mirror. He hadn’t missed any stubble and his hair was neat. He ran a drop of cream along his scalp to keep the frizz on the down low. He took a long look around the room and sighed. Nothing to miss here.
He swept his wallet, keys, and red BIC lighter from his dresser and tucked them into his pockets. Glancing one last time in the mirror, he was pleased by the expression staring back at him. A face filled with hope and excitement—his face! No matter what lay ahead, he’d get through it with Eva by his side.
He picked up the duffel bag he’d packed with a few necessities and opened the door for the last time. He was more than eager to get to city hall.
Richie met Art under the Municipal Building’s arch, and they took the elevator up together. They arrived in the outer room of the judge’s chambers, where Mark was keeping watch at the doorway. Mel and Eva were hiding down the hall, waiting for the clerk to call their names.
Vando wouldn’t be attending—he was on the opposite coast, networking. Between his efforts and the chiefs’, the Counter SIN Agency had raised enough funds to buy an old automotive shop in Sunset Park. It had plenty of office space on the garage and loft levels. Vando, Martin, Eva, and Nancy had volunteered to work for free until the agency raised more funds. Eva and Vando had already put out two issues of EveryoneNeedsToKnowNews.com. The subscriber list was in the thousands, and a link allowed subscribers to make a suggested donation of ninety-nine cents per issue. Not only did most subscribers donate—they also posted comments and shared information too.
The rest of the agency members were still working or collecting pensions, so they didn’t need to be on the payroll. Richie was a mole again, and would be until he retired from the NYPD. This time he had complete faith that the entity he was investigating was a real threat to the city of New York, and to humanity.
The clerk called his name, and Mark leaned into the doorway. “I’ll get your bride, Rich.”
Richie swallowed; he couldn’t speak. He nodded and blinked to hide tears.
Art clapped him on the back. “It’s showtime!”
Richie laughed and wiped under his eyes. He didn’t care if his best man noticed the tears. The next few minutes were a blur. The best blur of his life because when it cleared, Eva was his wife.
On the way to Little Italy to celebrate, the small group passed a homeless man, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth.
Richie stopped short and let go of Eva’s hand. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”
He stepped back and handed the man a five-dollar bill. “For food, not booze,” he said.
“Thanks.” The man shoved the money in his sock. “Got a match?”
Richie reached into his pocket and lit the cigarette with his red lighter. He watched the cigarette glow as the man inhaled, and then pressed the lighter into the man’s palm. “Keep it.”
He smiled and ran to his friends.
Keeping looking for the truth.
—Servando Gonzalez
Epilogue
The Third Friday in March 2013
New York City, 4:00 p.m.
Dewer Rock lifted his freshly poured drink from his desk. He celebrated the end of every trading day with a glass of smooth single malt. He stood and faced the window. Leaning on his cane a little more than usual, he ambled across the floor. He had felt a strange wooziness all day. He reached the window and glanced at the whiskey. It whooshed against the sides of the crystal glass
as it settled, but he hadn’t spilled a drop. He turned his gaze toward the new downtown skyline. After eleven years and six months, the financial district was once again crowned with the tallest skyscraper in Manhattan. The almost completed Freedom Tower was four hundred feet short of its final height. The spire, installed on the roof just last week, was missing its top. It hadn’t been delivered with the base, but it was on its way. Once the spire top was installed, the Freedom Tower’s height would rise to 1776 feet.
At rebuilding committee meetings, Dewer had sold the building’s height as a symbol of the year America gained her freedom. And the year 1776 was indeed symbolic, just not in the way the committee members assumed. Duplicity abounded in the new tower, as in all things he manipulated.
After all, the United States of America hadn’t really gained independence in 1776. The British colonies had simply changed their corporate name from the Virginia Company to the United States, and the fraud was set. The Declaration of Independence passed overt dictatorship of the colonies from the British monarchy to covert ownership of the United States to the Crown in the City of London. Oh yes, 1776 was symbolic. Duplicity.
Dewer had proposed the name the Freedom Tower for the same reason. Symbolic patriotism. And the committee members fell for it, again. They loved the name, and never once considered that the Freedom Tower celebrated the illusion of freedom. In reality, Americans had given up individual freedoms when they so easily accepted the lie of September 11.
A wave of dizziness swam through his head. He leaned heavily on his cane, grasping the handle for support. He enveloped the wolf’s head with his palm, and his fingers squeezed the husk of the sheep’s head. He slowly lowered himself into the armchair.
He raised his drink and turned toward the Freedom Tower. Duplicity.
Lazio, 10:00 p.m.
The Cardinal Once-Again removed his plain white cape from the peg by the door. It was cool out tonight, and he was too old to chance catching cold.
Before leaving the villa, he tossed a flashlight in his pocket. The first night he arrived at the Castel, the compulsion to journey across the gardens and into the mountainside grotto had come upon him in earnest. The sun had set while he prayed and he made it back to the residence by moonlight and the grace of God. He had repeated the trek every evening for the last three weeks. This evening, the urge to continue the routine was stronger than ever. He took a sip of orange soda, hoping for an energy boost, and headed out.
By the time he reached the mountain, the sun was listing over Rome. A force pulled him toward the gigantic black iron cross mounted at the end of the hundred-foot-long stone catacomb. Holes spaced in the curved ceiling every two yards allowed enough light for him to find his way down the tunnel. When he reached the end, he climbed three shallow stone stairs and knelt at the foot of the cross.
Genuflecting, he began to recite the phrase that commenced his prayer sessions here every evening. “Lord, encourage all the faithful . . .”
This time, his words echoed and bounced off the walls. Time and space no longer existed as separate parts of reality. All space, all things were one. Together. Now. He felt it in his heart, in his soul, in the air surrounding him. His prayers were everyone’s hopes. The protection of the world depended on these words, here and now. In all places and all time.
Abundant energy and hope filled his heart, tears streamed down his cheeks, and he prayed. “Embolden them to cooperate for the salvation of the world.”
* * *
Dewer’s pulse raced as his eyes traced the Freedom Tower’s silhouette. He took another sip. The whiskey did nothing to clear his head, but it did push the dizziness to the background.
The Freedom Tower would soon be the tallest building in the western hemisphere, but not the whole world, as it should be. A bitter reminder that he had not yet attained his goal. He controlled only half of the world.
The governmental coup following the September 11 attacks had worked. But the rest of the takeover hadn’t unfolded. His chest tightened and he gasped. He hooked the cane handle over the arm of the chair and massaged his chest.
The persistence of the NYPD and the FBI’s New York field office had exposed his Shadow Intelligence Network. Because of them and a popular alternative media personality, the agents and assets on the inside had become aware of their true role in the staged attacks, and had become whistle-blowers. Dewer’s lawyers had kept the State Attorney’s Special Prosecutor’s Office tied in red tape for over a decade. He’d die in jail if he went to trial. But his lawyers were paid well to keep stalling. And they were undefeatable. As long as the evidence collected by the detectives were never revealed in a judicial process, he’d die a free man—freer than any man on earth.
The tightness in his chest abated and his head cleared. He wouldn’t allow simple biological discomforts to abuse his body. He swirled the remaining whiskey around the ice cube, sniffed, and tilted the crystal glass against his lips. A taste of vanilla touched his tongue and slid down his throat. He rested the glass on the armrest and gazed at One World Trade Center. After he took control of the entire earth he would build a higher tower—the tallest tower in the world.
He would soon see the New World Order. The federal takeover of local police departments and the Internet were taking hold, and within the next decade all resistance would be snuffed out. And the independent contractors—mercenaries, really—would always do his bidding, as long as he paid them well. And he paid them very well.
He would own the new world.
* * *
The Cardinal Once-Again recited the next protection prayer. His voice suddenly boomed throughout the cavern. The words left his lips and resonated with a deep abundant voice. His words combined with the hope of humanity, and they spoke as one. “In the Name of Jesus. . . bind all demonic forces that have come against us and our families and I seal all of us in the protection of Your Precious Blood.”
A whirlwind of pure energy swirled all around the Cardinal Once-Again, and he continued praying. “. . . and surround us with your mantle of love to discourse the enemy.”
* * *
The dizzy spell slammed Dewer with a vengeance. He couldn’t shoo it away by sheer will this time. It swirled from his head down to his chest. He squeezed the wolf-head cane handle with his palm; and his heart raced. He looked away from the Freedom Tower and leaned back on his chair. Air crept over his whole body, and every inch of his skin tingled. Magnetized waves of energy wiggled through his core, bones, and flesh. The air surrounding his skin was eerily electrified. For the second time in his life, strong positive energy attacked him.
A sharp burst of pain shot into the left side of his chest, and he couldn’t breathe. The cane smacked onto the marble floor, splitting the handle in two. The crystal glass rolled from his loosening fingers and smashed onto the floor.
All pain went away. He couldn’t turn his face or cry for help. His was stuck facing the window. A pure shimmering beam of white light shone over the Freedom Tower and into the sky above the clouds, and it loved him. The love radiated from the light. Love he’d never known before. Love he knew now. He floated above his organic body and into his tethered spirit.
And it became dark. Pitch-black. And a putrid smell saddened him beyond all sadness. He could still see the light through the darkness; it shimmered and smelled so sweet. But the sulfuric stench overpowered the sweet fragrance and the light dimmed.
The love was not for him. He felt a snap. And his tether broke. His spirit was free. He saw the light, but it was so dim, and he didn’t know how to reach it.
* * *
The Cardinal Once-Again lowered his head and continued praying. “Guardian Angels come defend us and our families in battle against all evil ones that roam the earth. In the Name of Jesus, I bind and command all the powers and forces of evil to depart right now away from us, our homes and our lands. Amen.” His last word bounced off the cavern walls and boomed: I believe.
And the Cardinal Once-Again unders
tood His will. His love was everywhere for everyone to grasp at any time. But He would not force His love. Every soul had to find His love and welcome it into his heart. He would save the world only if the world wished to be saved.
* * *
A tug. Dewer’s spirit bounced downward into the dark. Another tug. Deeper into the darkness, deeper into the stench. Dewer couldn’t escape the magnetic pull, and he spiraled down. The loving light winked out. He had reached damnation.
Tel Aviv, 11:00 p.m.
The concierge said the special order would cost much more. “Cash is not an issue. Send them up,” Moen Pindar snickered and hung up the hotel phone. He washed down two Viagra pills with Moet. He refilled the champagne flute and stepped onto the balcony. A Mediterranean breeze ruffled his robe, and he wondered how the wind would feel on wet skin. He turned the temperature up on the small Jacuzzi. He’d never fit inside with the two girls. He’d watch them until he was ready.
Fingernails tapped on the door. He tightened his robe and frowned. Nothing was stirring under there. He popped another pill on his way to the door.
Two curvy Muslim girls sauntered through the doorway. He popped through his robe and moaned. The ten-thousand shekel was well worth every agora, and more. The girls rubbed against him. He put one arm around each and led them to the balcony.
The taller girl shimmied out of a skin-tight evening gown. His eyes trailed over her body and lingered on her naked backside. She shook shiny brown hair across her back. A large roundish birthmark stood out on her left shoulder blade. He moved closer and gasped. He recognized the face of Osama bin Laden. Foolish zealot.
The girl scoffed and wiggled against him. “Osama’s picture bother you?”
The Council House (The Impoverished Book 3) Page 25