Lord lurched from the backseat of the official Lincoln, flicking a cigarette in an arc as he crossed the wet sidewalk. Above him, the soaked American flag with its 48 stars, lit in the stormy dark afternoon by dueling triangles of spotlights, furled and popped with each strong gust.
The Department of War’s very first Observation Director, Lord entered through the main entrance on Pennsylvania, stomping his feet before hustling across the lobby. The armed guard mumbled a greeting and allowed Lord access to the curved stairwell, which he took two steps at a time. On the second floor, he made his way through two levels of security before padding down the long, portrait-laden executive hall, the footsteps from his handmade shoes dampened by the thick burgundy carpet. Though he had walked this corridor hundreds of times, Lord had never once stopped to view the oil paintings of the stuffy-looking men, nation builders, none of whom ever lived to see their portrait hung. Because Preston Lord, like most of his compatriots in Washington, had little concept, or appreciation, of history. Most in Washington were concerned with two things: where they were now, and where the next election would take them.
The Observation Director was different from most, however. A sharp-nosed, hatchet faced, ruthless man with degrees from two prestigious northeastern universities, he worried only about the present, and his unscrupulous climb to the top. He didn’t concern himself over the next election. He knew his instincts were cat-like—he’d always be able to land on his feet.
Working as a rogue only added to Lord’s mystique. Precious few knew of his battery of shadowy agents—hard men with high intelligence quotients and little regard for human life. In fact, Lord purposefully kept most of the facts of his team to himself. In his mind, this protected him, and would guarantee his position from administration to administration.
Though he was trust fund wealthy, Lord felt no allegiance to his family—he hadn’t spoken to his mother or two brothers in years. They’d called his office; they’d sent letters and telegrams—he stopped answering when he realized there was nothing to be gained by it. He wished they would leave him alone or, better yet, just die. To Lord, family was a colossal waste of time. Most traditional things were.
The only true diversion Lord enjoyed was sex, of the masochistic variety. He was unquenchable, preferring married women due to their necessity for discretion—and for the glorious fact that they always had to leave. Their leaving was the second-best part of the liaison; he had no desire to share his home, or his non-sexual time, with another soul.
And because of a planned sexual rendezvous this evening, Lord wished the phone call he’d just received would have come tomorrow morning, after he planted his seed in that panting round-assed, wedded secretary from Justice. But now he’d have to stand her up because, in Washington, there was no such thing as a regular life schedule. And Lord had long since grown used to a timeless, calendarless way of life, going all the way back to his first day working as a page for an insipid junior congressman from South Dakota.
Lord reached the end of the executive hallway, glancing around to see no one. After quickly thumbing through the papers on the two secretaries’ desks, finding nothing of great interest, he placed his hand on the knob of his boss’s door and listened. Following ten seconds of scant sounds, he took a great breath and burst through the door. Seated at his large desk with his feet propped up, reading from his daily periodical brief, was Henderson Wolfe Mayfield, known by the public as H.W., known to his friends simply as “Wolfie.” Mayfield, the former congressman from Tennessee, was now the United States Secretary of War, appointed to the office by President Roosevelt three years earlier after Mayfield’s predecessor died of a stroke while eating Lady Baltimore cake at a state dinner.
Upon rudely infiltrating his boss’s office, Lord noticed Mayfield’s rubescent face. Lord kept coming, purposefully stepping around the expansive desk to see the crystal tumbler, warm in the Secretary’s hand, half-filled with potent Kentucky liquid.
“Don’t you knock?” Secretary Mayfield growled. A devout Methodist, he kept his drinking highly secret, even from his wife. Over the past three years, Lord had always chuckled at the copious numbers of peppermint wrappers and Listerine bottles that filled Mayfield’s trash bin. With a reputation as one of the hardest workers in Washington, the Tennessean was known to work well past midnight five and six nights a week. Lord, however, believed it was all a ruse designed to allow Mayfield to do the two things he lived for: drink heavily and read.
Secretary Mayfield placed the tumbler in a drawer, carefully pushing it shut. He stood, brushing past Lord and closing himself in his restroom. The running water didn’t completely cover the sound of his gargling. Several minutes later, the Secretary of War emerged, his face and leading wisps of hair damp. He walked to his window, staring at the rain-slick lawn and, in the near distance, the White House. The clouds were quickly dissipating, with a few hints of pink twilight showing in the west.
“I should hope you’ve a suitable motivation to burst into my chamber unannounced,” Mayfield said in his deep drawl. He turned and glared. “Impudence at its essence.”
“I received a call from one of my men in California. A disturbing call.”
Mayfield gestured to the sofa as he took a seat in a high-back chair. “A call about what?”
“About Neil Reuter.”
Mayfield’s eyes flicked to his right before coming back to Lord’s. The Secretary had to keep up with thousands of people, projects, operations, bills, conflicts. Added to all of those things, he still had to perform each of the duties that went along with being a married father of four—and a closet alcoholic. Despite his innumerable obligations, Lord noticed Mayfield’s recognition at the mention of Reuter’s name.
Because Neil Reuter knew where all the bodies were buried.
Literally.
Mayfield nodded. “Yes, Reuter. The, ah…shipping fellow. I remember something about him. Go on.”
“Well…” Lord fingered his fedora, stalling.
“Well, what?”
Lord smiled a torturous smile.
“What?”
“He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes, sir. Gone.”
“I remember Reuter,” Mayfield said, shooing with his hand. “He’s been a drunk since that tragedy with his wife. Probably shacked up in some whorehouse, or passed out in an alleyway somewhere. He’ll turn up.”
Lord continued to grin as he slowly shook his head.
Mayfield frowned, his voice growing edgy. “What’s this all about?”
“He’s not laid up drunk. He’s not out whoring.”
“Then where is he?” Mayfield demanded, poking a rigid finger into the arm of the chair. An impatient man, he despised being brought along slowly. And Lord thoroughly enjoyed torturing him by doing just that.
“Where, damn it?”
“Reuter has fled.”
“Fled?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ll come back to it.” Lord sat on the edge of the chair. “Do you remember the name Lex Curran?”
“No, I do not. Get to the damned point. What makes you say Reuter has fled?”
Two “damns” in mere seconds.
Lord knew he was on dangerous ground. The drinking was Mayfield’s little secret, but the man almost never cursed. As a matter of fact, the only time Preston Lord had ever heard him swear was two years before – and the object of that vicious ass chewing, a former high-level bureaucrat, was now the assistant manager of a struggling grocery store in Fairfax. Abandoning his irksome game, Lord explained.
“If you will recall, Lex Curran is the man accused of murdering Neil Reuter’s wife. So, back to Reuter—I received a phone call a short while ago…disturbing to say the least.” Lord lifted his left hand and checked off items by pulling down his fingers. “Reuter sold his business, his estate, his boat, his cars…everything down to the last rake in his gardening shed…and yesterday, he disap
peared.”
“Sold everything?”
“Every single thing he owned,” Lord replied sharply. “Do you have any idea what that portends, what he could do to us?”
The florid color Mayfield’s face had held earlier was now replaced by ghostly white. He pulled his mouth shut, clearing his throat before speaking. “How did you find out?”
Lord shrugged. “Routine check turned it up.”
Mayfield stood. He walked to the drawer and removed the tumbler of whiskey, downing all of it, his discretion apparently lost in the moment. “And this Curran fellow, why did you mention him?”
“Do you really want to know?” Lord asked, unable to keep his thin lips from twisting in a smirk.
“Yes.”
Lord reset his countenance. “I’m not trying to be cute. You truly might not want to know this, for your own protection.”
“Just say it, damn you.”
One curse word in three years, and now three today. Guess I touched a nerve. “After the murder, when the police were forced to release Lex Curran due to lack of evidence, I snatched him.”
“You what?” Mayfield bellowed.
“I snatched him. I did what I felt was right.” Lord shrugged. “And, turns out, I was right.”
The Tennessean stormed across the room, grasping Lord’s hand-tailored suit jacket and lifting him by the lapels and growling his words. “Your reckless, cavalier ways will land me in a federal prison.”
Lord was eye-to-eye with the hazel-eyed Secretary. “Unhand me…right now.”
“Why did you do such a thing?”
“Because, if you will just calm down and think back to that time, you’ll recall I wanted Reuter neutralized after the murder of his wife. He was too much of a risk. But you wouldn’t allow me to take Reuter out, so I grabbed Curran as my insurance policy.”
Mayfield loosened his grip. “You’ve kept a United States citizen captive—for two years?”
“Absolutely. And, after a little bit of pain, Curran confessed to what he did. Cried like a little baby, and he’s been crying ever since. C’mon, it’s not like I’ve been holding some cherubic choirboy against his will. This guy is a gutter-dwelling rapist and killer. Hell, I did the citizenry a favor. To hell with that bastard.”
Mayfield released Lord and shoved him backward, spitting his next words. “These methods of yours, they’re not only unconstitutional, they’re criminal.”
“There is no justice among men.”
“Don’t start laying famous quotes on me. Where’s Curran now?”
“Just before I came over here to see you, I ordered him shot and killed.” Lord stopped the coming rebuke with an upheld hand. “And, no, I cannot recall my order. The wheels are in motion on an order that can’t be undone.” He took a step closer. “Because, Secretary Mayfield, I want your ass to be on the line…with my own. That way, you’ll be more motivated to jump behind this little plan I’ve developed.”
Mayfield took a step back, aghast. “You ordered Curran killed?”
“You heard me, Wolfie.”
The Secretary of War staggered back to his desk, plopping down as he stared off into nothingness. “Why?”
Lord mumbled to himself something about how the seniormost officials are often also the most naïve. He then spoke slowly, enunciating loudly like he might to someone who recently learned English. “Because, sir, I want the general public, and the local authorities, to think Neil Reuter did it.”
“But why?”
“Because no one knows where Reuter is,” Lord laughed, throwing his hands up. “He’s fled, don’t ya see? And now if he turns up and starts talking about all the things he’s done, we’ll simply say he’s crazy over his wife’s death, and a murderer to boot.”
“Reuter knows too much. He could ruin us all.”
“Funny how you could barely remember him a few minutes ago, and now you’re an expert on the man.” Lord gestured around. “I have men in every major city of this country, and many more scattered around the world. Once Reuter’s located, I can neutralize him in mere hours.”
“You’re mad.”
“Hey, I wanted him gone after his wife’s murder. You’re the bleeding heart who ordered him spared. So, in essence, this is your fault.”
Secretary Mayfield glared at his shadowy subordinate. “Where do you think he went?”
“The man’s crazy—always has been. He’s got Indian blood, you know. For all I know, he could’ve just gone out into the wilderness to dig his own grave and die in it.”
“And if not?”
“He’s hours from being wanted for murder. We’ll find him.”
The secretary reached into the back of his drawer. He poured another glass of liquor, taking a long sip with closed eyes. “God help us if you don’t.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE STATE-OF-THE-ART DOUGLAS DC-3 LIFTED OFF, the twin radial engines droning loudly as the fully loaded airplane clawed its way into the damp evening sky at Chicago’s Air Park Airport. Traveling under the name Frank O’Ryan, Neil pondered all that lay ahead. Facing rearward, he unbuttoned his Glen plaid suit jacket, adjusting himself in the seat. After almost a full day in Chicago, he was ready to get this long leg of the flight over with.
Once he eventually landed in New York, Neil was scheduled for a morning meeting in Manhattan. After that meeting, he would hopefully have an impeccable new identity that no one could possibly trace. Neil would then travel by ship to England. Once in England, he’d have to find transportation to Austria—no small task.
When the airplane leveled off over the southern rim of Lake Michigan, the engine noise abated somewhat. Neil pulled the flexible seat lamp over his lap and opened his loose-leaf notebook, resuming the transcription. He quietly spoke the German to himself as he translated Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn into proper German text. Neil’s father had been a first-generation German from the small farming town of Lich, located in Central Germany. While his mother’s people had raised Neil in the ways of the Shoshone, his father had insisted they speak German in the home. During the war, Neil had used his experience from both upbringings. Since then, however, he’d hardly spoken German. Now he had the desire, and a life-dependent reason, to speak the language once again. And he’d need to speak it like a native. He worked hard to make sure his CH sounds were crisp and guttural, and to burr his R’s in the Austrian way.
Feeling a bit fatigued, Neil reached between the seats and removed his brown leather bag, pushing his service .45 to the side as he retrieved a fresh pack of cigarettes. He slit open the pack with his thumbnail and lit one.
“May I have one, please?” the lady across from him asked, leaning forward and touching his knee. In front of her, on the small teak table that separated them, was a tumbler half-full of clear liquor, which she swirled expectantly. She had boarded in Chicago. Neil made her as thirty years old, or perhaps a year or two shy of the milestone age. She spoke with a foreign accent and her eyes appeared faintly Asian. Neil handed her a Lucky Strike and couldn’t help but notice her firm, generous bosom as she leaned forward, the cigarette perched in her mouth as she awaited a light.
“What’s your accent?” Neil asked offhandedly as he flicked his lighter.
She puffed the cigarette coolly, leaving a tight red ring of lipstick. “I am Russian,” she said, resuming her perusal of the newest Look Magazine. She didn’t thank him for the cigarette; she didn’t smile.
And she didn’t look at him again.
Neil examined her clothes, eyeing the trim blue suit that contrasted nicely with her auburn hair. Judging by her suit, her shoes, her handbag and her demeanor, she came from money—rare for the few Russians Neil had ever met in the States. He blinked several times, wondering why he was even intrigued. He resumed his translation.
Much later, Neil jolted as he felt movement around his hands. It was her, the Russian. He had been dozing with his legs stretched out when the Russian lady had spirited the notebook from his lap. He tried to g
rab it but she’d already pulled it across the table.
“Excuse me?” he said, holding his hand open for the notebook.
“What is all this?” she asked, holding the book under the light, moving her index finger over the scrawled German, loaded with a number of the very German scharfes-S characters and umlauts.
“It’s German,” he said, snatching the notebook back. “And it’s private.”
“Cigarette,” she commanded, snapping her fingers.
“Direct, aren’t you?” he asked, producing two cigarettes. The man across the aisle from them stirred. The Russian woman’s makeup and hair were as perfect as they had been when they had boarded the aircraft five hours earlier.
She stared at him, her face so neutral and unreadable that it was almost unnerving. After several drags on the cigarette, she leaned forward, tapping the black linen covering of the novel. “Who translates Huckleberry Finn into German?”
Neil stuffed the notebook and the novel into his bag, careful not to allow the nosy Russian to see his Colt. As he worked with his bag, he spoke. “I own a small publishing company. We’re translating the book into German. I do much of the work myself.”
“Liar.”
“What did you just call me?” Neil asked, raising his eyebrows.
Rather than answer, the Russian woman pressed the switch of her lamp, reclining in her seat. She pulled on the cigarette once more before crushing it out. As she closed her eyes to sleep, a sly smirk remained on her face.
For the next seventy minutes of the flight, Neil tried his absolute best not to stare at her. It wasn’t that she was not attractive—she was—but Neil was proficient at reading people, their motives and their emotions. And while this Russian was a cool customer who could probably make serious money as a card sharp, his instinct told him her interest in him was more than casual. So, even though he knew it was rude, he kept on staring. And, as the plane began its descent, the Russian opened her eyes, seeing his gaze. She returned the stare, neutrally.
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