by Young, Mark
Gerrit watched the road ahead. They pulled onto southbound I-5. Ten minutes later, Cromwell took the exit to San Diego International Airport, runways cutting between the USMC’s recruiting depot and the Navy’s fleet anti-sub warfare school along the edge of the San Diego Bay. A well-protected stretch of real estate.
As they neared the airport, Cromwell glanced over at him. “Oh, they have a passport waiting when you get to D.C. I guess you won’t be staying there long.”
“What? My passport is locked up in a safe in Seattle.”
The lieutenant shrugged. “My guess, they’ll be giving you undercover creds. Passport included. You’re on your way out of the country.”
“Where are they sending me? And who is ‘they’?”
Cromwell turned his attention back to the road. “They will tell you who ‘they’ is when they want to. Why they’re sending you, only God knows, son. Him and those calling the shots. Watch your back.”
Chapter 7
Washington, D.C.
Gerrit landed in D.C. as a steel dawn cracked the eastern horizon. A man dressed in the black and white uniform of a chauffeur stood at the boarding gate peering at each passenger as they emerged from the plane. The man glanced toward him with a look of recognition, then moved in for contact. “This way, Detective. I have a car waiting.”
How did this guy get past security? The driver entered a code to access a secured door, then led him down a flight of stairs to the tarmac. A stretch limo was parked near the doorway.
The driver opened the car door to reveal a predawn greeting party for him—Marilynn; her father, Senator John Summers; and a third man Gerrit didn’t recognize. The senator leaned forward. “Climb on in, Detective. Get out of the cold.”
He stooped through the doorway and slid onto a black leather seat opposite Marilynn and her father. Senator Summer’s gravelly voice—as if hewed from granite rocks—spilled on about law enforcement, serving one’s country, and fighting the good fight. It was as if the man was trying to win Gerrit over as a voter.
After the political rhetoric, the senator leaned forward with a conspiratorial look, introduced the third man as someone from State without giving a name, then lowered his voice. “As you know, Gerrit, I sit on the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. I also have a pipeline to the White House on intelligence matters. You know, the right hand keeping the left hand in the know.”
Gerrit stared back. Where was this conversation going? Marilynn avoided his glances, as if he wasn’t even here. The State guy—probably a spook—sat tight-lipped, watching.
“We’ve got friends in a lot of key places—particularly in the business community. People willing to help us protect this country and make it a safe place to live. Know what I mean?” The senator shot him a wink.
Gerrit looked on without responding. The word snakeskin came to mind as he studied the senator.
“My daughter tells me good things about you and your work on this here task force she runs.”
She finally gave him a glance.
“We have a situation, a matter of national security you might be able to help us with.”
“Like what, Senator?” So far, Gerrit didn’t have a clue as to why he was sitting in this plush ride.
Senator Summers sat up, back rigid, his look of friendship vanishing. Instead, a mask seemed to slip over the man’s face. His eyes narrowed. “I know about your service to our country while in the armed forces. Special Ops in the Mideast, several tours of duty. Impressive record, son.” The man’s impassive face seemed to conflict with his impassioned words. As he spoke, the senator seemed to be sizing Gerrit up as if trying to decide whether he could be trusted.
Gerrit pursed his lips, waiting for the senator to get to the point.
“We could use your special skills in an investigation, the details of which I am not at liberty to discuss right now. I want you to meet a friend of mine: Richard Kane. He’s expecting you in England later today.”
Gerrit glanced at his watch. It was 2:00 a.m. in Seattle, making it midmorning in London. He did a quick estimate. “There’s no way I can get to London until nine or ten this evening. And I still don’t have a clue as to why we’re meeting here, Senator?”
“Your chief has been briefed and gave approval to have you work with us,” the senator said. “Everything will become clear once you meet with Kane. Until then, we must maintain a certain level of discretion on our end. You understand.”
“Actually, I don’t, Senator. You’re shooting me a wink and nod, as if we are the best of friends, and giving me a line of bull. I’m not stupid. So far, you haven’t given me anything that would warrant my cooperation. Be specific.”
Senator Summers’s face flushed a bright red, and Marilynn shot Gerrit a shocked look. She leaned forward. “You can’t talk to my father that way—”
“Sure he can, hon,” the senator shot back, holding on to her arm as he apparently fought to restrain his own emotions. “We’re asking Detective Gerrit to trust me, and he doesn’t know me from Adam. After all, I’m a politician.” He laughed and leaned closer. “Look around you, son. We’re sitting out here in an unsecured location. I just can’t spell out national-security information in this environment. You can understand that, can’t you?”
Gerrit couldn’t help himself from nodding.
“I thought you’d understand. All I ask is that you meet with Kane and hear what he has to say. He will fill you in on all the details. He has high-level clearance and will be running the operations from his place in England. Then you decide from there. Fair enough?”
“Operation?” Gerrit already felt uneasy about the situation. He recognized the importance of maintaining security, but so far he had not been given anything to work on. And now, the senator was hinting about some operation on foreign soil?
Senator Summers leaned back. “You’ll land in Heathrow and Kane’s people will pick you up. They’ll let you get some shut-eye before heading up north where Kane’s group is headquartered.”
The State Department man—wearing a black fedora, a black rain coat, white shirt, and black shoes, dressed as if he wanted to try out for a bit part in Casablanca—finally seemed to come alive. He reached into a chrome Halliburton briefcase, withdrew a yellow package, one end already opened, and handed it to Gerrit.
Gerrit reached inside and withdrew a passport, airline tickets, British pound notes bundled together, several credit cards, and a California driver’s license. He flipped open the passport and saw his photo plastered on the second page of the document, but another man’s name appeared below the photograph.
John Gerrity.
Someone had switched Gerrit’s first and middle name and added a letter to his first name. He glanced at the embossed name on the credit cards and CDL. Same bogus name printed on these documents.
Gerrit glanced at the guy from State, then turned toward the senator. “John Gerrity?”
The senator shrugged. “Name seemed to work. Easy for you to remember.” He leaned forward and placed his hand on Gerrit’s arm. “We need to be careful. No one will search you getting on or off the plane. We must keep this meeting with Kane quiet. Remove all your current identification papers and store them in your luggage. No one will look, I promise.”
After placing everything back into the envelope, Gerrit set it on his lap. “You have to be kidding, right? You want me to prance through the airport with these bogus documents and board a plane for the UK without knowing what I’m getting into. I’m not an idiot, Senator.”
Senator Summers seemed flustered. “Let me assure you these documents will never be questioned, nor will you. This is just to protect the secrecy of the operation.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know—national security.”
Anger flashed on the senator’s face. “This is a matter of life and death. For many people, Gerrit. Don’t be so flip with me.”
“Then don’t expect me to waltz into that airport without some assurance that this has been clear
ed with my bosses.”
Nodding, the senator flipped open his phone and dialed. “Your man seems reluctant to cooperate. Talk to him.” The senator thrust the phone toward Gerrit.
Gerrit pressed the phone to his ear. “Who’s this?”
“This is the man who tells you what to do.” Lieutenant Cromwell’s angry voice boomed over the phone line. “Let me make this simple. Do what they say. That’s an order…straight from the chief.” The phone went dead.
Gerrit shrugged and passed the phone back to the senator. Anybody but Cromwell, he’d have asked to speak to the chief.
“Now that we have that matter cleared up,” Summers slipped the phone into his pocket, “there’s a commercial flight scheduled to take off in less than an hour. You are going to be on it as John Gerrity. Understood?”
Gerrit nodded and stole a quick look at Marilynn. Stoically, she sat and stared at her hands.
Summers tapped on the glass separating them from the driver. The limo began to roll toward the terminal. They left the tarmac, rolled through a guarded gate, and pulled onto a city street. Gerrit glanced out the side window and saw they were pulling up to the curb in front of British Airways east of the main terminal.
“Cheerio, Gerrit. Have a good trip.” Summers extended his hand. Marilynn shot him a quick smile, the first since he climbed into the limo.
Gerrit edged toward the door, grasping the envelope.
The driver came around and opened the door. Gerrit started to step out when the senator called out, “Let’s not have any further contact, shall we? Just get word to Marilynn if you need to talk. Otherwise, take your lead from Kane.
“And Gerrit,” the senator added. “You’ve been reassigned to the State Department. Those documents you’re holding provide diplomatic immunity. Cromwell has been filled in on what he needs to know. Don’t expect to be hearing from him any time soon.”
Gerrit crouched and stepped outside. He turned to face the senator. “Is there anything else about my future I should know about?”
Summers smiled. “If there is, you’ll be told, soldier.”
The driver closed the door, already holding Gerrit’s overnight bag in his hand. “Here you go, sir. Have a good trip.” The man tipped his hat and walked around to the driver’s side.
“I’m a U.S. Marine, you pompous ass,” Gerrit muttered, watching the limo pull away. Entering the terminal, he sought out a bathroom stall where he could privately trade his true ID and related documents with the falsified ones. What would the penalty be if he was caught?
In the last twelve hours, he seemed to have relinquished his own life—and identity—for something as ill defined as national security. That euphemism called national security covered a lot of ground, and he heard it got a lot of people in trouble on Capitol Hill. He thought of another good Marine—Colonel Oliver North—who faced a political hurricane while trying to serve his country under the name of national security. He hoped Senator Summers and the others knew what they were doing. It was Gerrit’s neck sticking out here.
A few minutes later, he left the bathroom stall and made his way to a security checkpoint. A woman in a blue TSA uniform took his airline ticket, boarding slip, and passport.
“So, Mr. Gerrity. Traveling to London?”
He nodded, getting used to his new name.
She handed him back the documents. “Have a nice trip.” As he walked away, a reflection in the glass allowed him to see that the woman was still following his movement. She looked until he could no longer see her in the glass. Glancing back, he saw her questioning another passenger, then turn toward the next person waiting to be cleared.
His lips felt dry and his chest tight.
As he watched airport security screen each passenger, he wondered why he felt so guilty if he was acting in the country’s best interest. Maybe it was the fact he didn’t have a clue what this was all about. A pawn in a game in which he did not understand the rules or the objective.
Hopefully this guy Richard Kane could enlighten him. He would just have to wait and see.
She watched as John Gerrity disappeared past the last checkpoint, gathered his belongings, and strode in the direction of his departure gate. She pulled out her cell phone and hit a preset number, watching the target disappear from sight. A moment later, a man’s voice answered. She glanced toward the departure gate one last time.
“He just cleared security, sir. Should be boarding in just a few.”
“Did he seem suspicious?”
“No. But he seemed…wary. Kept watching me as he walked away.”
The man’s emotionless tone sounded like an automated answering machine, but his words invoked fear in her. “You’d better not have raised his suspicions. Otherwise…”
The line went dead. With shaky hands, she lowered the phone.
Chapter 8
London, England
A blond flight attendant, her white-capped teeth dazzling against deeply tanned skin, leaned over and spoke softly. “We’ll be landing in just a few minutes, sir. Pilot tells us he expects we’ll go directly to the terminal upon arrival. Please buckle up.”
Gerrit gave her a smile and reached for his lap restraint, clicking it into place. Only moments before, he’d watched the plane slice through a bank of clouds, leaving a pale moon behind in their wake. Darkness enveloped them. Once through the gloom, lights far below seemed to beckon.
Flashing runway lights hurled beneath them in a blur, and he leaned back to prepare for a jolt as wheels touched down. Fifteen minutes later, Gerrit shouldered a flight bag as he made his way into the terminal, still reeling from the last eight hours of sleepless travel.
As he cleared Customs, a man came alongside him. “Mr. Kane extends his greetings and wanted me to give you a lift, sir. This way.” The man spoke with a southern drawl, extending a left paw the size of a grizzly as he grabbed Gerrit’s bag. Lefty had a pancake nose and eyes of a boxer, shifting and calculating, an unspoken warning for those around him to be wary.
Gerrit followed Lefty through the terminal to a gray Rolls-Royce already parked along the curb, engine running. Another man sat behind the wheel. Lefty flung Gerrit’s bag into the trunk before opening the rear door. His head jerked toward the open door.
The car peeled away from the curb the moment Gerrit’s rear end touched leather. He eased back and watched the air terminal fade away, looking out on a dark, rain-swollen sky. Once on the ground, he saw the clouds close in to suffocate London with sleet and ice.
Maybe he could talk Lefty into loaning him an umbrella. Everyone in this part of the world must have one—just like Seattle. As the car weaved through traffic, Gerrit laid his head back and closed his eyes. His mind, though tired, refused to relax. Questions kept popping up like sparks from a fire. What was so important that he was yanked from a case five thousand miles away to a meeting in this foreign country? And who was Richard Kane? He had to be powerful to make a U.S. senator dance to his tune. To authorize Spyman from CIA, State, or whatever to hand deliver falsified top-quality documents. It was clear Kane wielded clout.
But to what end?
Another red flag rose back in D.C. when he saw Marilynn willing to stand in her father’s shadow, to melt into the background during their brief encounter at Dulles. She never took a back seat to anyone—including her father. Totally out of character for this woman he’d come to know, publicly and intimately.
Gerrit’s mind must have wandered off in deep thought during the ride because the next thing he knew, the car pulled over and Lefty stood outside, opening the car door. Easing out of the car, Gerrit’s lower back felt stiff from all the sitting he’d done during the night.
A recent dusting of snow coated the ground and chilled the early morning air, giving him just enough briskness to shake lingering sleep from his tired brain. Lefty, bag in hand, led him toward a light stone dwelling on the corner of what appeared to be two residential streets.
Shielded from the snow above by a pillared port
ico, Lefty lumbered up the expansive marble stairway to an elevated landing and rapped twice on a heavy wooden door. A gray-haired butler, face impassive to the point of disinterest, opened the door as if he had all the time in the world. Lefty impatiently brushed past without further conversation and handed Gerrit’s bag to the butler as if to a meaningless servant.
Gerrit followed his guide up a curved stairway to the second floor, a tiled corridor softened by a carpeted maroon runner. They paused before an ornately carved oak door with brass doorknobs. Lefty rapped twice before barging in to the room. “Mr. Kane, your guest has arrived.”
Motioning Gerrit forward, Lefty slowly backed out of the room and closed the door behind him. At first, Gerrit saw no one in the room. Then, a figure emerged from an interior doorway to the left and walked toward him. The man appeared to be in his sixties, with long ivory-white hair swept back to his shoulders and a sharply chiseled face that must have caught the eye of more than one woman.
As the man drew closer, his eyes—darkly dangerous—seemed to peer at Gerrit as if searching for information. Those eyes reminded Gerrit of a predator—cold, expressionless, and calculating.
The man extended a hand. “Welcome to London, Mr. O’Rourke. My name’s Richard Kane.” A Texas drawl seemed to fit the man’s air of independence, a laid-back drawl that invited others to let down their guards. The man’s voice reminded Gerrit of watching old television clips of President Lyndon Johnson speaking to the American people during the Vietnam conflict. Words of familiarity no one trusted.
Gerrit shook his hand, expecting to feel the ice-cold touch of a reptile. Instead, Kane’s grasp seemed warm and strong.
He motioned Gerrit toward a chair near the only desk in the room, an expansive, simple desk carved from cherry wood, its reddish gleam polished to a shine. Not one piece of paper cluttered the desktop. Kane rounded it and sat down, learning forward with both elbows planted on the wooden surface, hands clasped together.