When he was caught up, she raised a worry that was starting to fester, one that she wouldn’t admit to anyone else. “What if Samuel is correct—what if this is nothing but an ill-conceived, unproductive dog and pony show? What if the ITT proceedings become such a debacle it becomes a black mark on my career?”
“If that happens, we’ll figure it out. Some risks you take will pay off. Some won’t. Just do what you think is right. You’re the smartest person I know. You’ll figure this out.” He paused, “As always, I’m here to help you with anything you need.”
“Thanks,” she said, her heart swelling with gratitude. It was comforting to know Justin would walk over hot coals, both literally and figuratively for her. And she’d do the same for him. She paused for a moment, debating whether to tell him about Zeus. “There’s more.”
“What?”
“We’ve made the shift to Black Raven security.”
“Okay.”
“Remember I mentioned that I asked my grandfather to make sure Zeus Hernandez wasn’t involved with the job?”
Justin drew in a deep breath. “He didn’t.”
“He did. Hernandez is here, front and center. He’s not only in charge of the detail, he’s heading my personal team. Body guarding me, for God’s sake. I’m furious.” She and Justin had few secrets from each other. They’d met in law school and known each other for eight years. They’d been study partners and the best of friends before she’d met Zeus the first time. She’d told Justin some of what had happened with Zeus at that time. Actually, she had told Justin most of what had happened, because it had taken her quite a while to get back to normal, and her good friend had insisted on knowing what the hell was wrong with her.
“Well, tell me about him.”
“Not in the mood.”
“Because?”
“I’m exhausted.” Partially true.
She turned on her back and stared at the ceiling, gripping the phone tight, as Justin’s voice became a lifeline, pulling her to a mental space where she had strength, resolve, and the ability to resist.
“I can’t say that I blame you for that. Wish I was there to give you a neck rub,” he said. “You sure you don’t want to talk more about him?”
“Positive.”
“Come on, Samantha. Now that you’ve seen him, is there anything still there?”
“Meaning?”
“You know what I mean. You. Him. Close quarters. Thirty days.”
“Honestly?”
“Of course, honestly.”
“As much as I can pretend it never existed, there will always be our past. There will never be a future, though. I don’t want or need him.” She gripped the phone tightly, trying to keep her voice calm. “When I have you. I guess the big news, at least for him, is that apparently he’s now divorced.”
“Well, that is big news.” Justin’s voice sounded steady, tempered, and even. “What’d you say when he told you?”
“Nothing at all. I shut the door on him.”
“Not your usual way of confronting adversity head on.” His voice was dry, but filled with concern. “From what you’ve told me about him, that was just his opening salvo. With the fact that he’s divorced, you know he wouldn’t be there if he wasn’t interested in revisiting the past.”
“I hope not. I’m so tired I can’t even think about it,” she said, not giving Justin the one-hundred-percent honesty she typically did. Reality was, she couldn’t stop thinking about Zeus being free. Because the more tired she became, the more she thought of his dark eyes, and his low, steady voice. His square jaw, with his high cheekbones, and the set of his serious lips. His broad shoulders and muscular chest, tapering to his narrow waist. The way he smelled of fresh-scented soap and underneath that, a slight hint of musky male, like a wooded forest on a crisp Fall day.
More terrifying than the lure of his physical attributes was the remembered comfort of his arms, and his innate fortitude that whispered a siren’s song of strength, safety, and stability. Those traits reactivated a deep-seated longing for what they’d once shared. Back then, she’d believed she’d found the one man who would love her passionately, yet be strong enough and secure enough not to suck her life blood—her ambition—out of her. That belief, once forgotten and now simmering into her consciousness, was what made Zeus Hernandez a dangerous man, because she couldn’t handle a heartbreak-inspired detour. Not now, and never again. She didn’t have time to waste on the hope and a prayer that a relationship would work, that someone would live up to lofty expectations inspired by emotional love.
Besides, she’d set a course of action for her life and didn’t plan on deviating from it. After Zeus had walked out, she had decided to abandon all notions of romantic love. The heartbreak Zeus had caused had made relationships based upon platonic love seem like the only intelligent, logical option for her. While any observer assumed that Samantha and Justin shared a sexual relationship, the truth was their relationship was non-sexual. For the closest of emotional contact, and the bonds that came with deep love and respect, she and Justin turned to one another. For sex, she and Justin both went elsewhere. Discreetly. Only Samantha and Justin knew all the reasons why, and they both planned to keep it that way.
“Should I be worried about you? Personal turmoil dealing with Hernandez, plus the business stress the trial is producing, plus your grief over Morgan and now Eric; this could all be too much to handle.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut, trying not to see Zeus. “He won’t produce personal turmoil. Don’t worry.”
Worry. Be very worried.
“Go to sleep, honey,” Justin said. “You know I love you to the moon and back, don’t you? No matter what.”
“I love you too,” she said, breaking the connection.
Chapter Eight
Paris, France
Wednesday, February 2
“We couldn’t have orchestrated a better opportunity if we tried,” H.L. said, his focus on three large screen TVs. Each featured a different news show with views of crowds that had gathered for the arrival of judges and lawyers at the Gothic-style, eighteenth-century buildings housing the International Terrorist Tribunal proceedings on the Ile de la Cite. It was a cold, gray, drizzly Parisian morning. He and his two partners were in an apartment on the Ile St. Louis, a short walk from the ITT proceedings.
Adrenaline rushed through him as they observed the jostling crowds. From toes to fingers, and chin to scalp, his skin crawled with excitement. Worldwide fear would multiply exponentially with each of their attacks on the ITT, and today they’d unleash more than one news worthy event.
They were far smarter than the two-bit thugs that now called themselves terrorists, and they’d been successful throughout the years. Like vampires fed off blood, he and his partners fed off fear. Everything they’d done until now had merely been the appetizer course. “This will be easier than shooting fish in a barrel.”
“And a hell of a lot bloodier.” The words came from the partner in their fear enterprise known as J.R., a tall, thin man with gentle brown eyes that belied the darkness of his soul and the staggering body count the man was capable of establishing with his go orders.
Like H.L., the initials J.R. bore no resemblance to the man’s real name or anything about him. They’d simply chosen initials that provided private humor, and they changed them periodically. H.L.? A memorable villain from the sad tale of very silent, very slaughtered lambs. J.R.? The scheming leader of a notorious fictional family from Dallas that made a fortune in oil.
Sitting on a couch, laptop perched on the arm of it, J.R. sucked one of his perpetual cigarettes. The man wore a two-thousand-dollar business suit and smelled like an ashtray. He was impeccably groomed, with not a hair out of place, yet the stench of his cigarettes invaded everywhere the man was.
The other partner present, M.C., adjusted his tortoise-shell glasses as he focused on the TVs. His initials weren’t taken from a fictional character in a megadr
ama, but rather from his role. Master of Ceremonies. M.C., their operations manager, made sure the infrastructure was in place to fulfill their goals.
M.C. and H.L. tolerated J.R.’s cigarette stench. He was an integral cog in their machine of terror, the genius who designed their attacks with an engineer’s precision.
Waving away a plume of J.R.’s smoke that had travelled to the table where he worked, M.C. said, “I’m pleased.” He was well versed at understatement, his mind, no doubt, moving on to implementation concerns for their next task.
The thousands of people gathered on the island in the Seine River were not admiring the order and precision reflected in the Parisian architecture, nor were they focusing on the tourist attractions of the Cathedral of Notre-Dame or the St. Chapelle Church.
On Monday, January 31, day one of the ITT proceeding, onlookers had been a mixture of protestors and supporters. Protestors claimed the ITT was a violation of basic human rights because the trial had few of the safeguards utilized in the judicial systems of civilized countries. Supporters believed the tribunal was the correct tool to combat terrorism—a last ditch effort that needed to succeed. The people outside of the proceeding held signs, but the gathering had been, for the most part, quiet.
News of the Monday night Boulevard Saint-Germain bombing and the cyanide poisoning of Eric Moss, an American lawyer on the Amicus team, hit the airwaves early Tuesday, February 1, day two of the ITT proceeding. The crowd outside of the proceeding had multiplied and grown more vocal, with protestors and supporters exchanging angry words.
This morning, day three of the proceeding, protestors had multiplied and outnumbered supporters. The media focused on the more extreme protestors–the extremists—in the restless crowd. H.L. and his partners cultivated extremists like farmers cultivated cows. There was selective inclusion in their herd, with careful feeding and years of nurturing. Calm indifference at the slaughterhouse was a prerequisite to success in their cause and, on a more fundamental level, to their sleeping well.
H.L. slept very well.
In fine linen sheets and cool, climate-controlled air, he slept the sleep of one in the arms of angels, without a thought for the people killed on his order or the abject fear he’d instilled in individuals. People were simply a tool for H.L and his partners to manipulate as they plotted and implemented their heinous acts in cigarette-smoke filled rooms. Most of the time, however, they mingled with the power brokers of the world—upper-echelon men and women who had no idea of their secret lives.
On the sidewalks and in the courtyards around the Palais de Justice and the Conciergerie, the building that housed the prison where Marie Antoinette was incarcerated, protestors jostled each other for space behind barricades. Women wearing headscarves and burkhas, and men wearing turbans, were interspersed throughout the crowd.
People held signs that read, in various languages, Remember Chalinda, and I am Maximov, the battle cry of terrorists who followed Maximov. ITT=Star Chamber and Stop Ultimate Exile were popular messages. A young woman with long dark hair bent her upper body against a barricade, holding a sign that read, in jagged, black handwritten letters, ITT=Witch Hunt.
Cameras and recording equipment were not allowed inside the courtroom. However, reporters were in the gallery and terms that were used by the lawyers and the judges had made their way out the doors and into the world through the media. On Monday and Tuesday, defense teams repeatedly accused the prosecution of being on a witch hunt, in arguments geared to persuade the judges and the reporters sitting in the gallery.
Because the United States was perceived as the driving force behind the ITT, anti-American sentiment became a popular theme among the protestors. A young man with a blonde crew cut held a sign that said, Stop American Greed. The man next to him carried a sign with a message that wasn’t so benign. It said, Behead Americans. When a camera focused on a close up of the man, his steady, unwavering blue eyes, suggested he was capable of the task and would not flinch.
“Find out who he is. Interview him,” he said, eyes on the TV screen, but nodding in the direction of M.C.
“Our recruiters are in the crowd. I’ll direct one to him,” M.C. replied, eyes trained on the T.V. screen.
“What are the plans for today?” H.L. asked.
M.C. removed his glasses and wiped them with a microfiber cloth before settling them back on his face. “We’re operating on three fronts,” M.C. answered, meticulously folding the cloth before returning it to his pocket. “First, a public show. Second, continued stress on the judges and lawyers. Third, the prisoners.”
“I’m aware that we have access to the prisoners. We will only implement that as needed, though. Right?” H.L. asked.
“Correct,” M.C. responded.
“I do not foresee today,” H.L. said. “Agreed?”
M.C. nodded.
J.R. blew out a plume of cigarette smoke. “Yes.”
“What is the plan for stress on the judges and lawyers?” H.L. asked.
“He’s the plan.” J.R. jutted his chin at the middle T.V. screen. A news show focused on one of the judges from the United States as he stepped out of a black sedan and was immediately surrounded by U.S. marshals and ITT security. Judge Kent Devlin was tall, lean, and fit. Gray hair at his temples, on an otherwise dark head of hair, gave him a distinguished look. His face remained calm, giving no indication that he heard the crowd’s yells, though screams of “executioner” were captured on the news audio feed.
“What will happen to Judge Devlin?” H.L. asked with a smile.
“We’re starting with our plan to pressure families of ITT participants. McLean, Virginia. This morning, Doctor Patricia Devlin will leave their home and drive to her office where she does whatever dermatologists do to wealthy women for a shitload of money.” J.R. paused as he lit a fresh cigarette off of one that he had smoked to the filter. “Dr. Devlin will not make it there. Maximovists will leave a simple, to-the-point love note with her body. I am Maximov. Stop ITT Proceedings.”
“Of course, her murder will not stop the proceedings,” M.C. interjected, a gleam of enjoyment visible in his blue eyes. “But we’ll be getting closer to that goal. For now, an alternate judge will fill Judge Devlin’s role if he is too grief-stricken to proceed. Her death, will, however, cause stress and among the other judges and lawyers. It will also ratchet up the chaos factor.”
As the T.V. showed Judge Devlin disappearing inside the stately building, H.L.’s palms tingled with excitement. He glanced at J.R. and M.C. Their eyes were trained on him.
“Should I give the go order for the demise of Doctor Devlin?” J.R. asked.
H.L. nodded. “Yes. Absolutely. The public show?”
“We’ve ruled out an interior attack,” J.R. replied, exhaling a fresh plume of smoke. As always, his matter-of-fact tone suggested he was discussing an agenda for an ordinary business meeting. Which he was, as they were in the business of creating chaos and terror, measured by blood and horror and the amount of economic disruption they caused. “Security is too effective on the inside of the building and, given the ban on cameras inside, exposure would be insufficient. Capitalizing on the crowds on the sidewalks, the narrow walkway between barricades that the judges and lawyers are using, and the placement of the media cameras, we’ve settled upon two possibilities—bombs and snipers. We’re ready to implement either on my go order.”
“Any particular target?” H.L. asked.
“Judges and lawyers would be best, but we don’t need to be too selective at this point.” J.R. shrugged. “Collateral damage is inevitable, no matter who we hit.” He looked at the monitors as he spoke. “That being said, any of the American judges would be a home run.”
“At this stage, a bomb will create the most chaos. Save sniper attacks for later, when it may become our only option,” M.C. said.
“Then let’s go with a bomb,” H.L. said, his eyes on the left TV screen, which showed Samantha Dixon Fairfax’s arrival. After yesterday’s proceedings, s
he’d become the media darling.
Leading a team beset by tragedy, she was well educated and unafraid to be vocal and opinionated. She also had a beautiful, all-American look with which the public identified. In the proceedings, she continued to underscore the doubts that her predecessor, Stanley Morgan, had regarding the evidence, and the media caught wind of that theme in last night’s news reports.
As she stepped out of a dark sedan, her blonde hair caught what little sunlight the morning offered. Their source had told them that Black Raven Private Security Contractors had taken over security for the Amicus team, compliments of Fairfax’s grandfather, Samuel Dixon. H.L. knew that Black Raven had become synonymous worldwide with a simple message: “Don’t fuck with us.” For this job, Black Raven wasn’t using subtlety. Fairfax was immediately surrounded by a four-man team of security personnel, their dark overcoats hanging loosely over their business suits and, no doubt, weapons. Security in place, Fairfax was concealed by a wall of flesh and brawn and barely visible to the cameras.
“Man to Fairfax’s immediate left,” M.C. said. “Black overcoat. Sunglasses. Taller than the others.”
H.L. glanced at the man who walked step in step with her. Jaw set, with barely an inch between his side and Fairfax’s arm, he was glancing at the crowd. “Yes?”
“Not just a bodyguard. Our sources indicate some interesting intel on this one. Jesus Hernandez. A partner at Black Raven,” M.C. said. “It’s noteworthy that he’s on site. He is well known in the world of private security contractors. Brilliant. His reputation is a leader, a strategist, and a big part of why the company is so successful. Had his own company that thrived in the Middle East after September 11, 2001. Joined forces with Sebastian Connelly at that time. He has high profile clients, Samuel Dixon, grandfather of the new chief Amicus Curiae counsel for the U.S. being one.
“Hernandez isn’t typically front and center on jobs. From what I know, his job in recent years has been running the company and being a behind-the-scenes cleaner for some of the trickier situations they’ve gotten into.”
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