Jack Del Rio: Complete Trilogy: Reservations, Betrayals, Endgames

by Richard Paolinelli

  Twenty years ago, they, along with the two dozen before them that had already departed for England, had been rigorously trained for a great mission for their homeland. They were to take their prepared places deep within the societies of Great Britain and the United States of America. Once there, they would bear and raise their children to become persons of power and influence and help steer both Great Britain and the United States toward a friendlier attitude toward Mother Russia. The goal would not be to turn the countries into communist states, even Stalin himself knew that was nothing but a fool’s dream, but to form a less adversarial relationship between the three great countries might help avoid the perils of a third World War; a war no one wanted, save the occasional madman of course.

  As the children had grown into their teenage years, they were paired into married couples after a full battery of psychological testing to determine the perfect match. There was no room for the uncertainty of that kind of love to be found in the equations of Karpov’s project.

  Meanwhile, in England and America, documents were being prepared—either by forgery or by altering official records by whatever means necessary—that would help assimilate them into their new homelands without raising any unwanted questions. Homes, automobiles, employment, and money would be waiting for them as well. Everything they would ever need or want awaited them.

  “You all make me very proud,” Karpov addressed the group with a quick wave at the yacht behind them. “I wish we could have had larger accommodations for your trip. You will be somewhat cramped even with what few possessions you are taking along with you.”

  “We will make do, Papa,” said the first young man in line, and it warmed Karpov’s heart to see the others quickly nod in agreement. These twelve couples would spend their next thirty-six hours on board the yacht, travelling in uncomfortably cramped quarters for over four hundred miles —he just caught himself in time to avoid measuring the distance in kilometers —west to Stockholm. Once in Sweden, safe passage awaited them on a cargo ship bound for a three-day cruise to Southampton where at least they would have their own cabins and a little more room.

  When they had disembarked in England, where they would lose themselves among the confusion of post-war Europe, they would then board separate vessels and cross the Atlantic as married American couples without any questions being raised of their new identities. If all went according to plan, and it had for the earlier group from what they’d heard so far, his children would safely be in America and beginning their new lives in less than three weeks’ time.

  “I have no doubt at all that you will,” Karpov said as he made his way down the line to hug each of his children and lightly kiss their cheeks for what he knew would be the last time. He’d been very careful to never play any obvious favorites among them through the years, but he was beaming by the time he came to the last couple on the dock. The young woman was glowing as only a pregnant woman could—they’d only confirmed the pregnancy three days before—and her husband was rightfully proud as well.

  Karpov gently laid his hand on their shoulders and kissed each lovingly on their forehead. Then he stepped back a few paces and took one last, long look at all of them. They knew it was the last time he would gaze at them no matter if they succeeded in reaching their destination or not.

  “Farewell,” he said softly and solemnly as he revealed a secret to them that he’d shared before only with Tatiana; a secret that could get him killed if anyone else nearby overheard his next words, “and may God above be with you, James and Kathryn Del Rio.”

  ONE

  Washington D.C.—Present day

  Jeremy Doyle was a very worried man, with extremely good cause. As the head of the Secret Service, and personally charged with the safety of the President of the United States twenty-four hours a day for every single day, being worried was always at the top of the Director’s job description.

  Every four years, on Inauguration Day, that very same concern for the President’s safety and well-being was each of the top ten items on the Director’s job description. On this day, like no other, never was a President more openly vulnerable than on the day he strolled up Pennsylvania Avenue from the Capitol Building after taking the oath of office. No matter how well his Secret Service team was prepared, no matter how much training and practice they put in during the weeks leading up to the event, Doyle would not breathe easy until the newly-sworn in President was safe and secure within the walls of the White House.

  “Comm check,” Doyle barked out, standing vigil in front of a bank of television monitors in the mobile command center, less than a block away from the platform where the President had just taken the oath and given his inaugural address. On the screens, covering the entire wall, every conceivable angle of the parade route was on display, with about eighty percent of the screens dedicated solely to watching the President’s every move from every possible angle.

  “Uh, sir, we just did that,” replied a young agent seated between Doyle and the screens. He wore a communications set on his head and a confused look on his face, clearly wondering why his boss would order a redundant check.

  “Then do it again, boy,” Doyle barked even more harshly. “I want to hear from everyone if so much as an unscheduled fly wanders into the parade route without clearance from six agents first.”

  Sitting in an observation chair, watching the festivities play out in bemused silence, Baker Collins winced sympathetically as the unfortunate agent quickly called out to his fellow agents escorting the Presidential party along the route. As the head of the FBI’s domestic anti-terrorism division Collins could appreciate Doyle’s apprehension, especially since they had good intelligence that an attempt could very well be made against the President on this day.

  Collins was also present due to the fact that for over the past two months Collins’ top agent, Jack Del Rio, had worked with Doyle’s team preparing them for this day. Because of his past experience in successfully dealing with terrorists overseas, Del Rio had been assigned to attack the security plans as if he were a lone assassin, looking to find the holes in the security arrangements around the President and help plug them so a real attacker could not take advantage of them. They’d done their best to get ready, and now the day had arrived when they’d find out just how good their best had been.

  William Arthur, who had taken the oath of office and concluded his speech just minutes before, was walking hand-in-hand with the First Lady. Vice-President Norman Cashman, who’d taken his oath of office just before Arthur, and his wife were just a few paces behind, smiling and waving to the crowds on both sides of the street. A dozen agents clad in black suits, white shirts and black ties, had spread out in front of the Presidential party, as well as to either side and behind. The agents walked along with the new leaders of the country; each agent’s eyes scanning the crowds relentlessly; each looking outwardly for any sign of trouble and each ready to react to anything.

  Unfortunately, they were all looking in the wrong direction.

  The agent bringing up the rear, a mere three feet behind the Cashmans, swiftly drew out his Secret Service issued SIG Sauer P229 and rapidly fired four shots, one round each into the back of the heads of Arthur, Cashman, and both of their wives. Before any of the protection detail could begin to react to the shots or warning shouts from the horrified onlookers in the command center, the turncoat agent mercilessly gunned down the other seven agents and quickly bolted into the crowd.

  By the time the remaining agents swarmed onto the scene, and despite their only being a few short yards away from the horrific attack, the assassin had made good his escape and was nowhere to be found.

  All that the assassin had left behind was cardboard cutouts of a cheering crowd silently looking on as eleven “killed” Secret Service agents —the seven members of the protection detail and the four agents who had been playing the roles of the Presidential party —stood in shamed silence. Blood-red paint dripped off of the back of their heads and splashed onto the
street below, while their late-arriving comrades could only look around in helpless silence.

  Doyle, however, was far from struck silent by what he’d just witnessed, bellowing out orders to the “non-killed” agents involved in the mock parade to track down the assassin no matter what, adding only at the end that the eleven “dead” agents were to remain where they had been “killed” until further notice. Collins had almost managed not to chuckle aloud when Doyle finally stopped shouting at his clearly embarrassed agents.

  “I told you Jack was good, Jeremy,” Collins said, not bothering to hide the smugness in his voice.

  “You go right to Hell, Baker,” Doyle snarled. “You hear me? He’s still somewhere in the area and we’ll nail him when we run him down.”

  Collins did not bother to point out the obvious, that any assassin who had just succeeded in killing the top two leaders of the country, along with over half a dozen of his protection detail, would not care if he actually managed to get away or not. He’d already won, and had all of the trophies he needed to prove it.

  “I want that son of bitch standing right here in front of me and I mean right the hell NOOOOWWWWWW!” Doyle’s bellow reached a whole octave higher with the last word as he clapped a hand to his throbbing left cheek. In wide-eyed disbelief, he withdrew the hand and found it dripping with the same blood-red colored paint that had struck the agents outside. The paint streamed down his face as he turned toward the direction from where the paint ball had come from. Collins also turned to look over his right shoulder and saw Del Rio, still in his Secret Service attire, seated at a table in the back of the control center with the paint ball gun in his right hand and a shiny red apple from a bowl in the center of the table in his left. No one had heard him enter the room, thanks mostly to Doyle’s bellowing.

  “Were you looking for me, Director Doyle?” Del Rio asked with such wicked innocence that Collins caught himself looking for a set of horns to suddenly sprout from Jack’s head.

  Collins turned back to watch Doyle’s face turn an even darker shade of red than the still dripping paint on his cheek. No one in the room dared to make a sound as they all braced themselves for Doyle to erupt.

  “This exercise is concluded,” Doyle finally said in a frighteningly calm and quiet voice. “Everyone outside for debrief on the parade route in five minutes.”

  As Doyle started for the door, the other Secret Service agents rose wearily out of their chairs to follow their boss outside, with the dour expression of those marching to face the firing squad.

  “Apple?” Del Rio asked as Doyle stepped between him and Collins; a wicked glint still in his eyes as he slightly extended the fruit toward the fuming Director. Doyle hesitated only briefly, a slight tick forming under the right eye, before continuing on outside without saying a word, his agents in tow.

  “You’re a mean son-of-a-bitch, Rock,” Collins said with a chuckle after the last of the Secret Service agents departed from the room. “You know that, right?”

  Del Rio merely shrugged as he bit into the apple, he had worked up a bit of an appetite out there. Doyle had only reluctantly agreed to allow what he’d called the Bureau’s “Golden Boy” to be a part of the inauguration’s security detail and even then he’d been very dismissive and condescending toward nearly every comment or suggestion Del Rio had made.

  When Del Rio had finally had enough of it, he had suggested the recently concluded mock parade with himself tasked to be the lone assassin looking to kill the President. Doyle had readily agreed and smugly predicted Del Rio wouldn’t even get off a shot.

  “It’s an institutional flaw,” Del Rio replied with another shrug after swallowing the fruit, “and Doyle’s the worst of the bunch. They are just too certain that they can stop any attack just because they’ve done it every time before, well, at least since Reagan in ‘81. They keep doing the same thing over and over again because it’s worked for them so far and they aren’t thinking outside the box.”

  “Like a terrorist would,” Collins interrupted. “Like you do?”

  “It is what you’ve been training me to do all these years after all you know.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Rock,” Collins said as he rose out of his chair, “I’m on your side here. Just don’t expect Director Doyle to be your best friend anytime soon after this little stunt.”

  “He can hate me all he likes as long as President Arthur lives to see the end of his term, or terms.”

  “Amen to that,” Collins replied and reached for the door. “Well, we might as well go out there and see if Jeremy is done fileting his people yet.”

  Del Rio followed his boss outside but prudently hung back a few yards while Collins approached the cluster of Secret Service agents. Just as Collins quietly joined the group, Doyle dismissed his agents; many casting dark looks in Del Rio’s direction as they departed, and before turning to hand something to Collins. Casting his own quick and extremely unfriendly, dark look in Del Rio’s direction, Doyle had one last comment for Collins before following his agents off the route.

  Collins waved Del Rio over and handed him the object Doyle had just given him. It was a Secret Service ID with full clearance and the name Jack Del Rio printed in bold type at the bottom.

  “Congratulations, Rock,” Collins said. “You are now temporarily assigned to the Secret Service as part of the President-elect’s protection detail.”

  Del Rio slipped the card into his jacket pocket without a word and headed off in Doyle’s direction. Collins watched him go with no small amount of apprehension. He’d been keeping a very close eye on Del Rio ever since the younger man had returned from his assignment out in the Four Corners.

  The physical scars Del Rio had accumulated from that case had healed nicely of course, but Collins was more worried about the wounds that no one could see and no machine could detect. Del Rio hadn’t spoken much about what had happened to him out west the past summer. What little he had said to Collins and to the Bureau’s psychologist had been just enough to get Del Rio cleared to return to full duty. If Collins hadn’t needed Del Rio to be a part of Doyle’s team he might have been sorely tempted to keep Del Rio on the bench for just a little while longer, or at least off on some other less stressful detail.

  Filled with concerned for a man he’d come to see as a son, and filled with all the misgivings of having to potentially put that same man right back in harm’s way once again, all Collins could do at this time was head for his car and hope for the best.

  As his driver started the engine and pulled away, Collins decided that he would give Jack’s girlfriend, Sara, another call on his the way back to the office. She’d been a great ally in the keeping vigil on the Jack Del Rio project so far and there was still more that she, and Collins himself, needed to do.

  TWO

  The pristine white beaches and crystal clear blue waters surrounding Nassau had drawn tourists from around the world for decades. One such tourist, an elderly gentleman attired in a gaudy yellow tropical shirt and white khakis that matched the color of his wide-brimmed Panama hat, had stationed himself at a beachfront table and watched in frank admiration as several bikini-clad ladies walked by. He was not the least bit troubled by the fact he was old enough to be their grandfather. Old, maybe, but not dead yet.

  A light breeze off the ocean ruffled the red and white umbrella that shaded the small wicker table and kept the ice in his Mai Tai from melting from the hot sun above.

  A dark shadow passed over the sand in front of him and he looked up in time to see a man about his age, dressed nearly as ridiculously as he himself was, taking the other seat at the table.

  “It’s been a very long time since I've had to resort to these kind of clandestine meetings, Vlade,” Norman Cashman, the Vice President-elect of the United States and the one-time Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, said. “Do you have any idea at all just how hard it is to slip away unnoticed at my age and in my current position?”

  “Almost as difficult,”
Vladimir Karpov, the former KGB Station Chief in London and the only son of Stanislov and Tatiana Karpov, replied with a lack of accent to his English that would have made his father proud, “I would very much imagine, as it proved to be for me to manufacture my unnoticed disappearance from Moscow, my old friend.”

  “You remembered,” Cashman exclaimed with a smile as a waiter arrived to deliver a tall glass of Cashman’s drink of choice, a rum and coke. Cashman lifted the offering, tipped it slightly in Karpov’s direction in a silent toast and took a long drink. “Ah, now that hit the spot. The last I heard, Vlade, you had retired from the KGB while there was still a KGB to retire from, and I'm sure you understand that I'm no longer a part of the CIA. So, exactly what are we doing in the Bahamas acting like a couple of geriatric James Bonds?”

  Karpov chuckled at the joke and drank from his Mai Tai. But the lighthearted moment passed quickly. He leaned closer to Cashman and spoke in a much quieter tone. “We are here, my old adversary, because you are about to become the next Vice-President of the United States of America, and you are the only man in the entire world right now that I believe I can fully trust with what I am about to say to you.”

  “Trust with what,” Cashman replied in a matching tone, leaning closer as well.

  Glancing around quickly, as if making sure no one was watching them, Karpov reached into his pocket and withdrew a thumb drive. He laid the drive next to Cashman’s glass and slowly withdrew his hand, almost as if he greatly feared what letting go of the little device meant for them both.

  “What is this?” Cashman asked in a hushed tome, unnerved by Karpov’s reaction to the drive.

  “This is all of the files and every bit of information that I could gather on a project that my father had begun even before I was born,” Karpov answered sadly. “What it was when he started it, what he truly intended it to be, and the monster that it has become today because others have violated it.