by Tony Bulmer
And so it was, that the device made its most innocuous arrival in the state of New Jersey. In its travels, the device had visited many countries, arriving and departing from each of them in the same anonymous fashion. Helpful friends along the way had altered documentation. Labels had been removed and new ones added. It was good to have so many friends. And now, as the device stood on the tarmac at New Jersey airfreight terminal, vacuum wrapped inside a bulk shipment of German photocopier machines, it was as innocuous as a Times Square tourist, slipping through the bustling throng.
The transshipment of photocopiers drew no more than a cursory glance from the hard–pressed customs inspector. Wrapped tight and snug inside its blissful cocoon the device slumbered on, quite unaware of its passing. Soon, the journey would be complete, from warehouse, to forklift, to low-loader, to arrival. Very soon the device would reach its destination. Then, there would come the time of awakening—for America—for the whole world.
60
The silver-grey Gulfstream V took off from the United States Naval Support facility on Diego Garcia, a tiny tropical atoll in the middle of the Indian Ocean. The flight was capacity full—high-ranking agency analysts, psych-doctors and a full-throttle medical support team, sequestered from the U.S. Navy and led by Dr. Helen Constantine, a hard-nosed veteran and ranking O-5, in the USN Medical Corps.
Lauren Whitaker’s fragile face was deathly pale. She had lapsed into unconsciousness, and her breathing, while steady, came in slow, shallow spasms. She was sick—real sick, and it wasn’t just the near-lethal cocktail of drugs the Pakistanis had pumped her with, even Karyn could see that.
Karyn’s face creased with concern. She half turned to Dr. Constantine and said, “She is going to make it isn’t she?”
The doctor was non-committal. “The patient has symptoms of opiate withdrawal. In addition, she has a severe case of cerebral malaria, which has led to acute hypoglycemia. It is common for such patients to suffer metabolic acidosis, electrolyte imbalance, and seizures. This is the most acute case I have seen in quite some time. Where did you find this young woman Ms. Kane, a swamp?”
Karyn pursed her lips very slightly. “Something like that.”
Dr. Constantine’s hazel eyes perused Karyn with disapproval. “We will try to stabilize her condition, of course. But, I must warn you that her recovery is by no means certain. She is suffering from pulmonary edema—a collection of fluid on the lungs. Her mind and body are going through severe trauma. There is a more than even chance that she could suffer catastrophic organ failure, either her liver, her kidneys, or spleen could give out at any moment. If that were to happen while we are in flight, there is nothing that we could do to help her. She needs to be in a hospital Ms. Kane, somewhere she can benefit from the advanced facilities of an acute care environment. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“You are saying you will do your best. Is she still experiencing periods of lucidity—I need to talk to her and soon.”
“There will be no talking to this patient Ms. Kane.” A hard edge crept into the doctor’s voice, exaggerating a distinctly foreign accent. Karyn couldn’t quite place it, but it sounded vaguely Greek.
“But she has been talking again?”
“Delirious ramblings. Her unconscious mind is free-associating elements of her past—things she has done, people she knows, and places she has been. Her subconscious is mixing these elements at will, with a jumbled series of emotional responses. I fear that unless we are able to reduce the swelling on her brain, there is a very good chance that these symptoms will increase, which raises the very real possibility that the patient might suffer permanent and irreversible brain damage.”
Karyn looked down at the pale fragile face of Lauren Whitaker. It was difficult to imagine, just looking at her, the catastrophic trauma that was coiling within her thin, vulnerable body. “I am going to sit here, ride this out at her bedside—if you don’t mind that is?”
“Mind? We have work to do Ms. Kane. If you get in the way, or stress the patient in any way, I will ask you to remove yourself to the front of the aircraft with the other passengers. Am I clear?”
Karyn gave the doctor a narrow smile. She didn’t much like croakers, especially when they had bars on their shoulders. She drew the narrow smile wider with effort. Best to keep the esteemed doctor in a good humor. It was going to be a long flight—hellish long, another fifteen hours or more.
Despite her growing sense of personal fatigue, Karyn sat down at Lauren Whitaker’s bedside. The tiny bucket seat Karyn squeezed into wasn’t exactly comfortable; jammed in tight against the wall of the cabin, to allow the passage of the medical staff, Karyn felt as though she was balanced on the edge of a knife blade.
The grizzling thrum of the high-powered engines, mixed with the soft, medicinal hiss of the climate-controlled cabin, had a hypnotic effect on Karyn. She sat in the bucket seat, attempting to focus on the chilled face of the woman she had saved, but it was no use; the dark power of exhaustion overtook her, sending her mind tumbling into a hellish alternate reality, where white uniformed dictators with giant golden pistols towered like ancient Pharaohs over a cowed and naked humanity. The glare of an intolerable sun burned down across a ravaged landscape of black trees. Giant buzzing insects pestered the sick and the dying, settling at will on the bodies of their hapless victims.
As the plane floated high above the clouds, the sun and the moon and the relentless planets flipped by at speed, as though the plane was caught in some hellish time-slip nightmare from which it could never escape.
Karyn’s eyes snapped open. The tight cabin blurred into view. Karyn’s senses sharpened instantly. There was no knowing how long she had been asleep; in the airless stasis of transcontinental flight there could be no true absolutes. But now, as she awoke, a loud intrusive sound echoed in her ears. She reached instinctively for her SIG that hung ready beneath her arm in the DeSantis shoulder holster, then eased back. The vital signs monitor was bleating insistently. The patient was stirring… reaching out towards her. Karyn didn’t hesitate she took the hand at once, and held it with gentle reassurance. The feeble fingers enclosed Karyn’s hand. She looked into Lauren’s pale eyes, sharply pinned and washed clear of vitality. Karyn said, “How are you doing Lauren? We have all been so worried about you. How are you feeling?”
“Alisa, I never thought I would see you again. Are the other girls here as well?”
Karyn paused, smiled back very kindly and said, “Everyone is here. We have all been holding our breath, hoping and praying for you to come through this terrible fever.”
Lauren Whitaker smiled weakly. “And Truman. Is Truman here?”
Karyn opened her mouth to respond, but Jack Senegar stepped in right behind her and said, “Of course, right here, just waiting for you to feel better.”
Lauren Whitaker’s eyes drifted shut, a happy smile curling at her lips. “I am so glad that you are here Truman. I have been so terribly worried about you. You have to be very careful. You know that don’t you—the Chinese, they cannot be trusted.”
Jack Senegar moved closer. “Thank you. I know that—I know everything now. I should have listened to you before—heeded your warnings.”
“There are bad people coming to get us—you will protect me won’t you?”
“Of course we will protect you,” said Karyn. She squeezed Lauren’s hand.
Lauren gave a deep exhausted sigh. “Everything has been so confusing. I am really so very sorry for all those things I said, those cruel, unkind things. You will forgive me, won’t you Truman?”
Karyn looked at Jack Senegar. He stared right back at her, his face hard, emotionless. “Of course I forgive you. But I must apologize too. Anything I have ever said or done to hurt you—well, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was weak. Stupid…”
Lauren Whitaker’s fragile hand trembled. She took a deep, shuddering breath and whispered, “I didn’t mean those things I said either. Those secrets will always remain between us. I wi
ll never tell—never, never, never.”
Jack Senegar leaned in very close now. “Which secrets my darling?”
61
70th Floor of the Rockefeller Centre, Manhattan, N.Y.C.
The corridor was strangely quiet, very different from the bustling studio of the Helman show down on 53rd. Clearly, the whole place was being renovated. The walls were skeletal, and the ceilings hung with a tangled vinescape of wires and bare ducting. Erin paused right before the lift, and felt the gritty bite of building rubble beneath her feet. The surprise of just how unfinished the new home of Helman Productions was took her attention away from the fast movement behind her. The dark figure dark came at her hard and heavy, forcing her forwards into the ghostly work site. The lift doors hissed shut behind her. Erin half turned, but strong pincer fingers caught hold of her arm and twisted it violently behind her back. The speed and sheer boldness of the assault took her quite by surprise. She let out a startled cry, followed by a string of violent expletives, as she struggled wildly to twist free from her attacker. Pain wracked through every part of her body, her mind reeling with the horrible realization that she was all alone—tricked into coming here on the strength of a stupid text message.
Erin was furious. Not just with her attacker, but also with herself, for falling for such a blatant ambush. As the fury boiled through her, she lashed out, grinding a stiletto heel into the shin of her attacker. This only caused him to twist her arm more viciously. She struck out with her elbow, then her balled fist, leveraging her weight behind each desperate blow, it was no use, he had her off balance. But Erin didn’t fold. She spat and cursed and struggled, fighting on with every once of strength she had.
Her attacker twisted hard on her arm, bending it so tight behind her back she felt lightheaded. He was forcing her forwards now, half lifting her, half shoving her along the gloomy corridor. She stumbled forwards. One of her strappy sandals had lost its heel. The knowledge made her ever angrier. She was so mad now she could hardly think straight. She tried desperately to make sense of what was happening, but her pain-wracked mind could think only of the horrors that were to come. She was alone up here—alone on a deserted worksite with some homicidal-rapist-psycho. It was a horrible tabloid nightmare come true. Maybe, this creep was one of those twisted celebrity stalkers—or a political crank—one of those wierdos who called into the show every day. If that was the case, she was screwed. There was no telling what the listeners could be capable of. Just months ago they had gotten a call from some dude who was attempting to crash his small plane into the Capitol building 911 style. It was a horrific scenario—but it had sent the listening stats through the roof.
Her attacker gave her a sudden push. Catching her off balance, Erin sailed forwards, spinning into a hanger like office space devoid of furniture. Windows glared bright, casting sharp columns of light into the room. Outside, the vast Manhattan cityscape stretched into the far distance every landmark building in town looming voyeuristically across the skyline.
Erin shielded her eyes against the harshness of the light. She found to her surprise she was panting, quick shallow breaths; not only that, she was bathed head to toe in a sheen of pure fear. Erin tried to calm herself. She sucked in a slow shuddering breath, and held it until her lungs ached. Her attacker was circling around her now. She recognized him as the smart young guy who had shouldered his way into the lift. He was powerfully built and despite his smart clothes, he had a cruel, low-class look to him—the sort of guy who enjoyed hurting people.
Erin circled away from him, limping backwards, as her broken heel threw her balance off. She wished to hell she could just kick her shoes off, but she knew that if she reached for the straps, her attacker would make a move on her. As she staggered backwards, desperately hoping that the added distance would buy her time, her attacker circled forwards wordlessly, coming towards her with slow, leisured steps. Finally, he stopped; reached inside his jacket and pulled out a large black handgun. He watched her now, his fast predatory eyes glowing with contempt. He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a thin metallic silencer and began screwing it very carefully onto the barrel of the pistol.
Erin’s heart leapt into her mouth. This was it? He was just going to shoot her? Her desperate mind reached out, to make sense of what was happening, but every aspect of the situation defied reason.
She took a step forward, then another. But any fleeting chance she might have had to knock the gun out of his hands had been cruelly wasted.
He pointed the gun at her, “Turn around, walk,” he said coldly.
Erin was shocked. She had expected him to have a Russian accent—Eastern European at the very least. But this smart, cruel young man in his tight, fitted business suit spoke very soft and measured, like he came from the Midwest.
“Why are you doing this?” asked Erin. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Shut up. Talking won’t save you.”
“You are going to shoot me—and not even tell me why? What difference does it make?”
“Turn around. Walk,” he commanded.
Very slowly, Erin turned. Then, as she limped forwards, she saw them—two figures at the far end of the giant office space, one seated, the other standing by the window, surveying the vastness of Manhattan. She didn’t recognize the figures at first; but then, as she drew slowly closer, her heart pounded into her mouth. No. It could not possibly be—
62
Truman Whitaker
It had been a busy afternoon for Truman Whitaker. Pretty soon the congressional recess would be over and he would be dragged back to D.C. to once again endure the unwelcome vicissitudes of the Democratic process. In the short days that were left, he had been campaigning busily, throwing his full weight into the arduous business of buying the next election. King’s help had been invaluable of course, but the man was a loose cannon. The episode in Mumbai proved beyond doubt that he was also a dangerous lunatic. When it came to the serious business of government, King was most definitely not the sort of man a president wanted hanging over his shoulder. Something would have to be done. Truman Whitaker allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk. Luckily he had a plan to resolve this most inconvenient of situations.
As he stood in the glass sided lift, Truman Whitaker looked out across Fifth Avenue into the approaching dusk. He had been successful up to now, accumulated vast personal wealth many times the dreams of most men; he had literally everything he could ever want or need, but those grand achievements would be as nothing compared to the power and influence he would gain as president. It would be his finest political achievement, a ticket to unlimited power. Finally, he would attain the respect of his unworthy adversaries. He would prove to all, that he was not only richer than them, but smarter too. Truman Whitaker smiled happily. His presidency would be a glorious dominion, with everlasting consequences for all who had crossed him.
As the lift doors opened and he stepped out into his luxurious penthouse apartment, Whitaker smiled ever wider. Irving King might think he was the smartest man in the world, but he was strictly small time, nothing more than a glorified petty criminal and blackmailer. Yes, King thought he was clever, but he was no match for the smarts of a career politician. No way. Whitaker chuckled to himself. He had come too far to let a creep like King best him. That arrogant little bastard would pay dearly for his impertinence—very dearly indeed. Whitaker strolled over to the wet bar, as the soft glow of the encroaching night danced into the room. How happy he was. Not two, but three Filipino whores in one afternoon, and no backchat from that nagging little bitch Lauren to spoil his fabulous day. Whitaker loosed his tie and chuckled again. He tossed a fat handful of ice into a whiskey glass then poured a generous helping of bourbon over the top. The whiskey crackled and popped as it hit the ice. He raised the glass to his lips then stopped.
Something wasn’t right—
Very slowly, the lights in the room drew bright. A soft fade into realization, as every aspect of the room drew into a shar
p and horrible focus.
“Something funny Truman? Something amusing, you want to share?”
The fire of the whiskey hit him in a hot wave. His mouth sagged open, but he couldn’t speak. He raised the glass to his lips with shaking fingers and swallowed down another hit of the icy booze. “How the hell did you get in here?”
Karyn Kane sat in the wing-backed club chair next to the window. She was elegantly dressed in a two-piece business suit, her smart topcoat thrown almost casually over the arm of the chair.
“Tequila Blanco. Rocks.” Her eyes burned with the power of molten amber. “You were going to offer me a drink, weren’t you Truman?”
“I could have you thrown in jail Kane. You don’t know who you are dealing with. I have very powerful friends.”
“So do I,” said Karyn. “My friends said I should come here this evening, and put a couple of bullets in you. Splash that half-wit brain all over the ceiling and make it look like a robbery gone wrong. What have you got to say to that Truman?”
Truman Whitaker sank back against the bar, steadying himself, with his arms. There are rules Kane—laws. I have rights—all kinds of rights. I am a very important person.”