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

by Richard Paolinelli

  An uneasy murmur worked its way around the table as Jack narrated.

  “It appears that there was one man in charge of the operation over here.” He stopped, stood up straight, and put his hands behind his back. “It was he that gave the orders to kill Norman Cashman and to sink the Los Angeles after the submarine had pulled Cashman out of the Atlantic when the first assassination attempt had failed.”

  “But his plane crashed in the mountains,” the Senate minority leader protested.

  “That crash was to cover the fact that Cashman had been killed, or so they thought at the time, on a jet flying back from a secret meeting in the Bahamas, where he learned of the plot. He survived and was rescued by my brother’s boat. I was contacted by my brother and Cashman filled me in on what he knew, giving me the information we used to bring down the conspirators.

  “The order to destroy the Los Angeles came too late to keep the conspiracy a secret.” Jack began walking around the table again. “According to my research, the man that arranged for the destruction of the Los Angeles and Flight 219 as well was either a Deputy Director within the FBI or the Director of the CIA.”

  Cavanaugh and Collins exchanged startled glances as the rest of the people in the room zeroed in on the two men. Jack drew his weapon and aimed it right at Collins, whose face quickly turned to a mask of icy rage.

  “I’m sorry, Baker—” Jack started to say.

  “Now wait just a damned minute, Jack,” Collins exclaimed. “I didn't—”

  “I’m sorry I suspected you, Baker,” Jack interrupted, swinging the gun toward Cavanaugh. “It was you, Director Cavanaugh, who provided the false intelligence to the Secretary that led to the sinking of the Los Angeles and the deaths of her crew, Cashman, and Secret Service Agent Kliene. You provided a document signed by the then-President, even though the man had never seen the document much less actually signed it. You are the point man for that decades-old operation, Cavanaugh. Yours was one of the families sent over in 1945. According to all of the records, not the fake ones you and your family have provided when needed over the years, your family has no prior history in the United States before the war.”

  “It would seem you have thought of everything, Agent Del Rio.” Cavanaugh said with the resignation of a man who knows there is no way out. “I salute you. I believe I should talk to my attorney from now on.”

  “You won't be needing one,” Arthur said coldly.

  Cavanaugh shot a confused look at the President. Keeping his gun on Cavanaugh, Jack slipped the folded paper into his pocket and withdrew a larger folded sheet of paper in its place. He flipped it open. The seal of the President of the United States was visible through the paper.

  “By executive order of the President of the United States,” Jack read from the paper, “the conspirators of the 1945 plot responsible for the recent acts of treason committed against the United States of America represent a clear and present danger.” Jack paused to let the wording sink in to everyone present. Jack was reading a death warrant, sanctioned by the highest officer of the law in the land.

  “There will be no public trials and no official recognition of what has taken place these past few days,” Arthur said quietly. “There are going to be quite a few ‘accidents' and ‘fatal illnesses.’ I understand there have been many in Moscow already, among certain members of their government and military.”

  “I see,” Cavanaugh said simply. He looked around the room and found no sympathy, even from the two faces he might have expected it from. “Which am I to suffer?

  “I’ll leave that up to Agent Del Rio,” Arthur said. “I believe he’s earned that right.”

  “Shouldn’t we question him first?” Collins asked, sticking his neck out as far as he dared.

  “Would you give us any information in addition to what we already have, Director?” Jack asked in a way that indicated he already knew the answer.

  “No,” Cavanaugh said, “I don’t think I’d care to do that.”

  “I didn’t think you would,” Jack replied. “Fortunately, we don’t need you Cavanaugh. Agent Johansen provided us with all we needed to know already, including how the Speaker of the House had been prepped to take over as President once Arthur had been killed. We’ll be dealing with Mrs. Liposey’s involvement shortly. I’m sure she can fill in any gaps we might come across.”

  Liposey started to protest her innocence, then stopped as she realized the futility of it. Clearly, the conspiracy had been fully exposed and no one in the room would believe any claims of her not being involved. She was politician enough to understand that she might be able to talk her way out of a death sentence.

  “As for you, Cavanaugh,” Jack looked him directly in the eye as two agents stepped up directly behind the Speaker who had the decency to hang her head in some semblance of shame, “this building is still undergoing construction. I believe you'll find that middle window in the wall over there is defective. A body could fall out to its death below.”

  “I see,” Cavanaugh said, looking at the window, then back at Jack. “Considering the alternative of a public trial, I think I'll go look at that window. Will my wife and children be told?”

  “Everything will be sealed,” Arthur said, though not out of any pity for Cavanaugh’s reputation. “No one will know the truth outside of those present here tonight.”

  Cavanaugh nodded and got up slowly out of his chair. He made his way toward the window Jack had indicated, placing a hand on it, and gathered himself to push through. But before he could do so, Jack called out for him to stop. Cavanaugh turned away.

  “There's one more matter, Cavanaugh,” Jack said when Cavanaugh had swung back around, his back now to the window.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Flight 219,” Jack replied simply. “That was a plane full of innocent people that you ordered blown out of the sky, and for no other reason than to kill me in case I was aboard that flight.”

  “Collateral damage, Agent Del Rio,” Cavanaugh said with a shrug. “The misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I did what was needed. Do not think for a moment I regret that decision.”

  “The woman I planned on spending the rest of my life with was on that flight,” Jack said simply, then fired three rounds into Cavanaugh. None of the shots were intended to be kill shots, and Cavanaugh would have survived had the force of the bullets not driven his body into the defective window.

  The crashing sound of shattering glass filled the room as Cavanaugh was thrown through and plummeted to the ground sixteen stories below. A large garbage container had been parked below and Cavanaugh plunged directly into, the sound of that impact carrying up to be clearly heard by everyone in the room. Seconds later, a diesel engine fired up, and the container, on top of a flatbed trailer, was driven away with no trace left to tell of Cavanaugh’s demise.

  Those in the room were shocked into complete silence yet again.

  “How do you plan to explain that?” Collins asked, unsure if he’d directed the question at Jack or at the President.

  “Simple,” Doyle replied. “Bradley Cavanaugh is a fugitive of justice, suspected of assassinating Kellen Paxton. There will be reports from time-to-time of appearances by Cavanaugh across the globe, but, to the shame of the FBI and the Secret Service, he will never be brought to justice.”

  The room fell back into silence for a few moments before the President moved on to other business.

  “Three days ago an assassination attempt was made on Agent Del Rio at his apartment,” Arthur informed the group. “Four bodies were recovered from the burned wreckage of two cars at the scene. By his consent, one of those bodies will be positively identified as belonging to Jack Del Rio. Officially, and unofficially, Jack Del Rio died in the line of duty. I think he's earned that much, and once you've all been fully briefed, I think you'll all agree.

  “All except you of course, Madam Speaker,” Arthur glared. “You will be implicated in the death of Paxton, and you wil
l cooperate with every facet of the investigation in exchange for a life sentence in Leavenworth. Unless, of course, you would prefer to join Mr. Cavanaugh?”

  Arthur let the question hang in the air. It did not take long for the woman to shake her head no. “I’ll cooperate,” she said meekly.

  “Very well,” Arthur said, as Jack turned away without saying another word, leaving the room through the same door that he had entered through.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The Winter Gardens cemetery had, through a combination of luck and foresight of its founder, secured a choice section of land in the outskirts of D.C. There were a number of stunning views throughout the memorial park, and when the sun rose and set each day, the sunlight filtered through the trees, which served as a boundary between the big city and open land.

  These were bonuses for the visitors of course; the dead no longer had any use for such things. The sun had just lifted over the horizon, and shafts of golden light and shadow drifted across the plot where Sara’s grave lay.

  Jack stood silently over her grave, trying, and failing, to ignore the headstone already in place over the empty grave next to hers. It was somewhat disconcerting as a living person to see one’s own grave complete with a gravestone bearing a date of death a few days in the past. His funereal was slated for two this afternoon. He was not going to stay around and attend it in person.

  Jack drew his overcoat tighter. The false spring was coming to an end for the D.C. area and the temperatures were already starting to return to their winter-time norms. Turning his attention away from the morbid sight of his grave, Jack knelt down next to Sara’s. Gently placing his left hand on top of the flowers, he closed his eyes and thought about the life they might have had together. His mind knew she was not lying below, but his heart needed to speak to her as if she really were.

  He was still in that position minutes later, when he heard a car pull up and stop. A car door opened and softly slammed shut and, despite the still soft grass, he heard the approaching footsteps. His visitor walked up behind him before moving around to stand between his grave and Sara’s.

  Jack kept his eyes closed for a moment more, until he was ready to face his visitor; until he could repress the pain he was feeling. He’d hoped, even when there was no reason for hope, that he had been wrong. That Cavanaugh and his fellow conspirators had somehow discovered he was expected to be on Flight 219 from someone else.

  There was only one person who could possibly be here over six hours before his funeral, and only one reason for that person to be here this early.

  He opened his eyes and looked up at Baker Collins.

  “I was really hoping that you wouldn't come here,” Jack said as he stood up, looking back down at Sara’s grave.

  “I just wanted to come by and pay my respects,” Collins replied, puzzled by Jack’s reaction. “I figured you’d come here one last time before you left.”

  “You know,” Jack said, wincing as if in pain—or struggling to contain great anger—before continuing, “there's just one thing that I don't understand about all of this.”

  “What's that?” Collins asked, uncertain where Jack was going with this.

  “What they could have possibly offered to you,” Jack replied, looking at Collins for the very first time, the anger and hurt clearly in his eyes. “What could they give you to be a part of this? What was the price to betray your oath, your friends, me?”

  “I…I don't know what you're talking about, Jack,” Collins lied, caught off guard by the hurt in Jack’s tone.

  “Don't you?” Jack all but snarled, letting the anger inside flow free. “You saw the ticket Sara had left for me on the counter. You saw the airline, the flight number, the departure time and the date. You were the only other person besides Sara and myself who knew that ticket was for me to use. You were the only one who could have given that information to Cavanaugh and he had that plane blown up.

  “Nearly two hundred innocent people were slaughtered for no other reason than they got in the way of you and your friends trying to stop me from stopping you,” Jack hammered away at his friend, his betrayer. “How many more have died because of all of this? How many have died since you knew about this that you could have prevented by doing your job? What for Baker? What was all those deaths going to buy you?”

  “You don’t understand,” Collins replied, shaking his head sadly.

  “Damn you, Baker!” Jack erupted, stepping around the grave to get nose-to-nose with Collins. “The crew of the Los Angeles deserve an answer, the people that died on Flight 219 deserve an answer, Sara deserves an answer, and I demand one. Why are all of these people dead Baker? Why, you son-of-a-bitch!” Jack exclaimed, nearly shouting as he grabbed Collins by the lapels of his coat. “WHY?!”

  “Because I wanted respect, dammit!” Collins replied, nearly matching the volume of Jack’s shouting with his own.

  “Respect?” Jack responded, his hands dropping away from Collins lapels in shock as this was the last explanation he’d expected to hear. “You're the Deputy Director of the FBI’s counter terrorism division, one of the best men to have held the job. You’re on the short list to replace the Director himself when he retires. What you've accomplished in your career would have been enough for any three men. How much more respect did you need, Baker?”

  “Do you know hard I had to work to get to where I am today?” Collins asked, his own anger rising. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for a black man to get into a position of power in this country?”

  “Don't you make it about that,” Jack replied, sickened that this would be the reason Collins would use to excuse what he’d done. “Did you happen to notice the race of our previous President? Our last two Attorney Generals? Don't you dare tell me anyone did anything to you to warrant the crimes you committed because of the color of your skin!”

  “You're damn right they did!” Collins snarled. “All of you, no better than those rednecks back home. You didn't look into my background good enough Jack. My grandfather’s parents came from Russia, too, and one of their sons married my mother in Alabama.”

  “Your family was—?” Jack began, surprised.

  “Yes, they were one of the original twelve couples,” Collins answered. “Like your family, they foolishly abandoned the plan early on. But they’d made a mistake and my father learned just how much of a mistake it was the night some good ol’ boys from the Klan paid a visit to our house one night when he was away.

  “I was just five at the time. And there were seven of them. My sister got me under our bed and stuffed some blankets in behind me to make sure they wouldn’t find me. She succeeded in that at least, but those seven men found her and my mother.” Collins paused in his narrative to pull out a handkerchief and wipe at the tears in his eyes. “My father came home a few hours later. I’d crawled out from under the bed after the men in the white robes had left and spent all of that time trying to get my mother and my sister to wake up. My father found me asleep in my mother’s dead arms.

  “Less than a week after we buried them, the all-white jury found their killers not guilty. My father was contacted by Cavanaugh’s father, and my father filled me in on our past the day after some white boys had roughed me up in high school. I agreed to help Cavanaugh because I knew it was the only way to ever get justice for my mother and my sister.”

  “Revenge isn’t justice, Baker. You taught me that, and I learned that lesson myself this week. And murdering innocents isn’t justice either.”

  “They haven't changed back there,” Collins was not listening to Jack at all. “The last time I was back there, they didn't call me Mr. Director or sir or Mr. Collins. It was 'Hey, boy'. Well I was going to show them. Those white boys were finally going to get what they deserved.”

  “What happened to your family was unforgivable, Baker,” Jack said, saddened at what he had seen his friend become, “and I'm sorry. But do the actions of a pack of beer-swilling Neanderthals really justify the deaths of so man
y innocent people?”

  “They'll still get theirs yet,” Collins heard nothing but his own hate. “This isn't over, Rock, you know that don't you? All that you accomplished was to simply delay the inevitable. We'll still succeed, only now I'm the one running the show and with you dead there'll be no stopping me.”

  “And then what?” Jack barked, still trying to get through. “Then you'll have your respect? Your revenge cloaked in the name of justice at any price? Well, before you kill me, can I at least say goodbye to Sara?”

  Baker nodded, then looked around, checking to see if anyone was nearby. But the cemetery was still deserted, the groundskeepers starting their work on the other side of the park well out of eyesight and earshot. Jack knelt back down at Sara’s grave and shifted a few flowers around.

  “I'm sorry, babe,” Jack said quietly. “I'm so very sorry that I couldn't have protected you better. I’m sorry that you had to die for such a worthless reason.”

  Jack paused and, without looking up, addressed Collins. “And exactly how do you plan to explain my second death?”

  “You and I met to discuss any remaining conspirators before you left, when a sniper attacked,” Collins explained, turning Jack’s blood cold at the ease in which Collins discussed murdering a friend, a son. “You were killed and I will be injured. The President will believe it all. You said it yourself last night, I wasn't part of this. And after you have been mourned, I will connect with those that you have not yet caught, those not yet identified and we will complete our mission.

  “You really should have stayed out of this, Rock. I tried to get you to leave town, to get you out of the way. I really didn't want to see you hurt. But you give me no choice.”

  “Did you really think I would do nothing?” Jack shook his head. “You know me better than that, or at least you should.”