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

by Richard Paolinelli

“All perfectly faked,” Karpov countered. “I can show you the original file with copies of the faked documents, should you ever find yourself in Moscow.”

  “Did my parents know?”

  “I believe they did,” Karpov answered remorsefully. “I imagine they decided to let the secret die with them since they had no reason to suspect what the others were up to. There was no reason to burden you or your brother with the past.”

  “Okay,” Jack said, still trying to process this recent bombshell, “let’s say you aren’t selling me some kind of a con job. Why would my brother and my getting involved in this be of any more concern to them as opposed to anyone else?”

  “Because there is a very good chance that they caused the deaths of your parents and your grandparents as well,” Karpov replied bluntly. “They might just believe that your parents told you everything they knew before they died and that the two of you have been waiting all of this time to get your revenge by ruining their plans.”

  Jack had been very young when his grandparents had passed and he was a little hazy on the details surrounding their deaths. But he had just turned seventeen when his parents had died in a boating accident. There had been a thorough investigation into the incident and there had been little doubt that it had been accidental.

  “My parents’ deaths were ruled accidental,” Jack disagreed. “Besides, if they were out to kill my family, then why didn’t they finish the job? Why did they let Steve and me live?”

  “Who says they didn’t try?” Karpov countered. “Were you and your brother supposed to be on that boating trip with your parents?”

  Jack thought back and found himself not liking what he remembered. Steve had been recalled to his ship suddenly the night before and Jack had decided to spend some time with a girl he’d started getting interested in at school that day. Karpov could read the answer to his query on Jack’s face.

  “You were both supposed to be on the boat and should have died that day with your parents,” Karpov said softly. “When you both turned up alive and well they didn’t dare make another attempt on either of you. It might have raised the kind of questions they didn’t want raised had you two died shortly after your parents’ deaths. So they gambled that your parents hadn’t yet told you the truth about your family’s roots. I imagine they are regretting that gamble today.”

  “I bet!” Jack shook his head. “Look, you’ve accounted for half of the couples that abandoned the mission your father sent them on. Are you absolutely certain the other three might not have kept in touch with the others?”

  “Absolutely,” Karpov stated positively. “Two of the couples packed up and headed west for California and Montana and never looked back.”

  “And the last couple?”

  “Oh, they stayed in the area and kept in touch with your family through the years,” Karpov said with a sly smile. “Even with you.”

  “With me?” Jack said incredulously, trying to sort out who it might be and coming up empty. “Who is it?”

  “Their son makes a very fine suit,” Karpov replied.

  “The Bernetti’s?” Jack exclaimed in disbelief. Their family had always been close with his, and the old man himself always seemed to treat Steve and Jack as his own sons.

  The unraveling of his past was somewhat overwhelming. Reeling, Jack sat down on a vacant park bench with Karpov. In a way it all kind of made sense. Memories of abruptly cutoff conversations took on new meaning now that he was aware of his family’s past. He couldn’t recall when, but at some point in the last few minutes any doubts of the veracity of what Karpov had told him had evaporated.

  “There is a certain irony to it, don’t you think?” Karpov asked. “The descendent of Russians is all that stands between the success or failure of an age-old Russian plot to alter the United States of America forever.”

  Jack was less concerned with the irony of the situation as he was in how to prevent his country from falling into enemy hands.

  “So what do you suggest we do now?” Jack asked.

  “The only thing that we can do for now is keep looking, keep digging for any hint of who we are up against until the very last possible minute.” As he said this he put his hand on Jack knee, patting it once, looking him in the eye.

  “And if we fail to uncover anything?”

  “Then we must hope that your brother can keep Norman alive and bring him safely in front of a news camera. Perhaps we can stop them then.” Karpov asked after a moment’s pause. “Do you play chess by any chance?”

  “From time to time.” Jack was caught off guard by the non sequitur. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because, my friend,” he said looking out over the monument, “we find ourselves in the ultimate chess match right now. It is a game with the greatest of stakes, and we are approaching the endgame with the entire planet going to the winner.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Jack asked, intrigued by this strange old man fate had thrown him together with. “It seems that they're trying to achieve Lenin's wildest dreams. I'd think you'd be helping them, not fighting them.”

  “I suppose it does seem strange at that,” Karpov replied, surprisingly amused by Jack's back-handed compliment. “Here I am, a former KGB Director, fighting to save American democracy. But apart from the loss of life that would follow this madness, I find that I can't support them. What they would create is very, very wrong. In that I am in complete agreement with my father.

  “It’s the one thing you Americans have always known, though I think you forget it from time to time.” He turned his body towards Jack. “Without freedom there can only be chaos. These people are trying to bring chaos, and we must stop them at all costs.”

  Karpov’s last words hung in the air between the two men, reminding Jack of the eighth building that he’d withheld from Doyle at the briefing, as well as the reason why he’d done it.

  Karpov had spoken of chess and Jack had to admit to himself that he was already thinking of the endgame to this. His final move, a move he hoped he’d never have to make, was looking more and more likely to him with each passing hour. Jack briefly considered filling Karpov in on what he had in mind for a last resort before deciding against it. The old man had enough on his plate, and if it actually did come down to such an extreme there was little if anything Karpov could do to help him.

  Jack stood up to leave and Karpov joined him.

  “Good luck,” Jack said, extending his hand. “I’ll stay in touch as much as I can.”

  “And I will let you know if I discover anything of use,” Karpov replied, clasping Jack’s hand firmly. “Good hunting, Ivanovich.”

  The two men parted company, heading off in opposite directions; each keeping a wary eye open to see if they were being followed. Jack had taken possession of a Bureau car without checking it out, knowing his own car would be watched for; knowing that they could find out if he had officially checked out a car.

  He was hoping the move would buy him time and freedom of movement. With the sun nearly setting in the west, Jack wove through the busy streets toward his apartment. He would park a few blocks away and walk the rest of the way.

  But before he could get close, he noticed a car that seemed to be in an optimal position to follow him. Feeling justifiably paranoid, Jack decided to test the theory and turned away from the apartment, taking a less crowded street.

  As soon as Jack completed the turn, the trailing car suddenly sped up and quickly closed on Jack’s car, slipping into the wrong lane to draw even with him. Even as Jack drew his own weapon the twin-barreled muzzle of a shotgun appeared out of the passenger window of the other car. Slamming on the brakes and quickly ducking down, Jack barely managed not to get hit by the double blast of buckshot that erupted from the shotgun.

  Popping back up after the blast, Jack unloaded his own weapon into the other car before the shooter had a chance to reload. The driver of the other car, a dark Crown Victoria with no license plate, floored it and the car sped away.

>   Jack’s car was no slouch when it came to speed and power, and he gave chase even as the other car advanced ahead, running a red light in its haste to get away and sending a handful of pedestrians scrambling for the safety of the sidewalk they’d just stepped off of.

  Jack intended to take advantage of the clear road and kept his foot down on the floorboard only to lift off quickly and stomp on the brake pedal while hauling hand-over-hand on the steering wheel to avoid plowing into the school bus that had appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the intersection.

  Jack’s car slid to a stop without making contact. He scrambled out, gun back in hand, and ran around to the front of the bus only to find the car he’d been chasing was long gone. His heart racing, he took a second to look at the space between his car and the bus. You couldn’t fit a magazine between the two vehicles.

  Holstering his weapon, Jack gave the bus a disgusted look and headed for the side door, displeased with the driver, even if the driver had no way of knowing he’d helped an attempted murderer escape justice.

  “Look dumb ass,” Jack bellowed in anger as the door opened and he stepped in, “I don't know where the hell you learned to drive, but next time get the hell…”

  Jack’s voice trailed off as the driver, and the occupants of the bus, finally registered with him. A group of nuns, all with matching shocked and stern looks on their elderly faces, stared back at him. Embarrassed, Jack quickly flashed his FBI ID and sheepishly backed out of the bus without another word, waving at the nun driving the bus to go on after he offered a much nicer apology.

  As the bus pulled away, Jack gave one last look in the direction his attacker's car had gone. That it hadn’t been a random drive-by shooting was beyond question in Jack’s mind even despite the amount of effort they’d made to make it look that way. They hadn’t expected him to see them coming and duck out of the way in time. When he popped right back up shooting, they had cut and run. Jack had no way of knowing if he’d scored any hits on his attackers, but he knew that he had managed to put a dozen holes in their car.

  He inspected the damage done to his own car. The door had done a good job of absorbing most of the blast, but the window had shattered. He swept the glass off the seat so he could get back in and drive the car. He’d have to find somewhere to park it where it could remain out of sight for a few days. Then he’d need to get his hands on some new transportation.

  By the time the D.C. police arrived at the intersection, Jack was long gone, as well as anyone else who might have seen anything and been willing to talk about it.

  ***

  “I am beginning to believe,” Soors raged, “that we are destined to drown in a sea of incompetence just before the eve of our great triumph.”

  Cavanaugh shared Soors’ frustration at the news of the latest failure, but was more than happy to let Soors dish out the punishment.

  “Just exactly how difficult is it to kill one single man?” she ranted, not expecting an answer from the two men who’d drawn her wrath.

  “He was armed and fired back,” answered the one who wasn’t bleeding, while roughly bandaging his partner. The wounded man was too occupied with pain to respond.

  Two of Del Rio’s bullets had struck the man’s arm, rendering it all but useless and unable to continue to operate the shotgun. His partner had decided to drive away rather than face more fire from their target. One of Del Rio’s bullets had buried itself in the driver’s seat headrest. A couple of inches to the right and the driver would be dead. It was that fact they’d tried to relate to Soors, but she was in no mood to hear any excuses, legitimate or not.

  “And you didn’t think to return fire?” Soors asked scornfully.

  “To be fair, Georgina,” Cavanaugh said when neither man spoke up in their own defense. “If he had stopped, it would have given Del Rio a better chance to shoot him and capture both of our men and possibly expose us as well. It was probably for the best they withdrew when the initial assault failed.”

  Soors glared at Cavanaugh in outrage that he would defend these failures.

  “This is not some civilian we’re trying to kill,” Cavanaugh said calmly. “This is a trained Federal Agent whose expertise is counter-terrorism. An agent with a proven track record in being more than able to handle himself in a gunfight, even when he is clearly outnumbered and outgunned. No, I am disappointed at the failure, but I do not fault them for it.” He pointed to the men. “We will simply have to find another way.”

  Cavanaugh dismissed them, waiting until they had left the room before speaking again. “The question is how exactly should we proceed? This attempt will have Del Rio on red alert, anticipating the next attempt. He has to know who it is that would be coming for him so he will take precautions and will be that much harder for us to find.”

  “What exactly do you propose we do then? We cannot sit back and hope he doesn’t find out anything more before the inauguration.”

  “No we can’t,” Cavanaugh agreed. “Normally, we could attack a man through his family. However, you have done a pretty good job of cutting down those possibilities for that option and the only other family member we could actually target has also disappeared on us.”

  “Another failed assignment,” Soors said bitterly, thinking back to the half-successful attempt to wipe out the Del Rio family years ago. “If we could only find people capable of doing their jobs completely for a change.”

  “Perhaps you should start doing your own dirty work if you want perfect results, Georgina,” Cavanaugh shot back, enjoying the angry look Soors favored him with in return. “We will simply have to find a way to bring him down at a time and place where we will know in advance that he has to be.”

  “And where is that exactly?” Soors asked sarcastically. “That is a very good question,”

  “If you will excuse me, I’m going to see if I can find an answer to that.”

  “And then?”

  “And then,” Cavanaugh said as he stood up, “we will finally be rid of the pesky Agent Jack Del Rio; even if I have to shoot the man myself.”

  ELEVEN

  Jack had found a nice long-term parking garage in which to stash his damaged Bureau car and ceremoniously ‘borrowed’ a tarp from a nearby car to cover it, hoping to avoid any unwanted attention. He’d been fortunate to catch a Kawasaki dealer just before closing and had paid extra in cash for a used motorcycle that was in pretty good condition.

  Not wanting any official records of the transaction to make their way into unwanted data files, he had added a few extra hundred dollar bills to help ease the way past him having to fill out any official transfer of ownership documents using his real name.

  It was a slightly undignified way for an FBI Agent to travel around D.C., and it was certainly a much colder ride than he was used to, but it would get the job done for now.

  The attempt on his life had indicated two things to him. The first was that he must be getting too close for his quarry’s comfort, if they were sending people directly after him now. The thought filled him with some hope that he might actually be able to solve the case and stop the conspiracy in time.

  The second thought was that it was now going to be very dangerous for anyone to be associated with him. There was one task he would need to tend to, and it was not going to be easy to do no matter how necessary it was.

  He parked the bike a block from the Lavender. Sara was not due to go on stage for another hour or so. He hated the timing but it couldn’t be helped right now. As usual, he was waived right in and quickly made his way backstage to the room they’d set up for her as a dressing room. It was little more than a small table with a well-lit mirror, a slightly-comfortable chair, a cot for her to use to rest between sets if needed, and a small changing area with a screen and a rack to hang her gowns on.

  Sara was seated in front of the table when Jack walked in. Her face lit up as she raced into his arms. Jack held her close, feeling her warm, soft skin and inhaling her scent, knowing it might be some ti
me before he’d be able to do so again, assuming he survived the next few days.

  “This is an unexpected surprise,” Sara said when they broke their embrace. “Can you stay for the first show?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. I just stopped by to…” Jack trailed off, searching for the right words.

  “Jack, what’s wrong?”

  “I need you to hold on to this,” Jack replied after a moment, slipping the flight itinerary out of his pocket and handing it out to her. “Something’s come up and I don’t think I will be able to make the flight.”

  “I don't understand this, I thought you said…” Sara replied, angry and hurt, as tears formed in her eyes.

  “I know what I said,” Jack said more harshly than he’d intended before catching himself. “Sara, I'd give everything I have to go out there with you on that flight, and there is still a small chance that I still will. Which is why I want you to hold on to this until the very last minute.

  “I may not be able to make that flight. I can’t explain why but it’s connected to the inauguration, and I may have to stay in D.C. longer than I originally thought.”

  Sara was still upset, but was also becoming concerned as Jack explained.

  “Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

  “I’m going to try very hard to be,” Jack reassured her with a slight smile. “But right now, I've gotten myself in the middle of something big, and I have to see it through.”

  “What is it, Jack?” Sara asked, sensing there was more going on than what Jack was letting on. ‘What are you talking about? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “I can’t tell you.” He was trying to think of a plausible excuse. Grabbing her shoulders before she could protest, he raised his voice a bit. “No, listen to me! It's safer for you not to know anything about what I'm doing. It’s better for you to be out there in Vegas and far away from me until this is all over.”

  “But why can’t you tell me anything?”

  “Because the less you know,” Jack searched her eyes pleadingly, “the less likely you'll draw their attention.”