“I know. No actual photograph will be stored in my camera.”
“Correct. Don’t kill unless I instruct you.”
“Except for Martin.”
Ursa grumbled something under his breath.
“Do whatever you need to after you get every piece of information out of Martin. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Lastly, be careful, Peacock. Everyone here is fond of you.”
“You tell me that all the time. Don’t worry about me. I’ll stack up the dead if I have to.”
“You’ll stack up the dead if I tell you to.”
#
Ursa hung up and turned to President Monroe. “Our esteemed Mrs. Pendleton is on her way to Europe.”
“Not esteemed enough to keep the Stromiehre deal from happening,” Monroe answered, the features of his Muskogee Creek Indian ancestry clearly visible. His square jaw, pronounced forehead, and dark eyes and hair gave him a distinguished appearance, likened to old Indian royalty.
“Not her fault,” Ursa said. “You have Holman to thank for that.”
“True, and thanks to her, we’ll win this runoff.”
Ursa grinned. He wouldn’t tell Peacock until after the vote that a deal had been struck. He needed her concentrating on the assignments in front of her. “Let’s dial up Holman and surprise him.”
“Hello, Mr. President, it’s an honor to hear from you.” Holman answered with the tone of a foot soldier awaiting instructions.
“Cut the formal crap, Hal. You’ve always called me Charlie.”
An audible stutter was followed by, “Charlie, I dread this upcoming vote. Edmunds threatened me over the holidays. He said he’d see to it New Hampshire would lose funds if I didn’t vote for Russell. Edmunds is in a position to kill my state.”
Monroe’s eyebrows furrow at the name Edmunds, a traitor in his own party.
“I have a gentleman in my office I think you need to talk to.”
Monroe pressed the speaker button.
“You don’t know me, Congressman. But I know you.”
“Who is this?”
“Satan would be a friendlier person to speak to right now.”
A swear word escape the Congressman’s lips. “Look, I’m forced to change my vote. I’ve told Charlie New Hampshire comes first.”
“Actually a million-five comes first,” Ursa said. “Doesn’t it?”
“What?”
“But you already have a million-five for your vote in committee on the Stromiehre deal. Isn’t that right?”
“How . . .?”
“By the way, I’ve counted eleven, shall we say, intimate encounters with a beautiful, unnamed, redhead.”
“Shit!”
The silence that followed tickled Ursa’s contrition buttons. “Charlie and I have a deal for you, so you can make amends.”
“I’m listening.” The words were delivered with a defeated monotone.
“You’re going to vote with the ICP states and elect Charlie president. You’re going to use your position on committee to prevent any further foreign subcontracting.”
Ursa paused long enough for Holman to respond.
“Okay, what will you do?”
Monroe leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Got ya nervous, hey Buddy?”
“Damn straight I’m nervous.”
“Oh, this is Washington politics as usual. You busted my balls. Now I’m paying you back.” Monroe looked at Ursa and smiled. “In the olden days, I’d have scalped you. But today, that wouldn’t be good politics.”
Monroe grabbed the piece of paper Ursa handed him.
“Your wife will never know about the redhead,” Monroe read. “The details of your money transactions will be kept between you and me, unless, you decide to go back on your word. So what do you say?”
“We have a deal. But I need you to help my state anyway you can. Edmunds will be furious.”
“Well, that’s all in the politics. Say ‘hi’ to Margaret for me,” Monroe said, as he hung up.
Ursa extended his hand. Monroe rose, shook it, and gave Ursa a bear hug. “Your agent, whoever she is, deserves a medal of distinction. Bring her to my office when she returns from Europe.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
#
The second of four days with Pendleton had come and gone. Peacock cuddled close to him as he slept soundly. Being Mrs. Pendleton was the only thing that existed for her in days one and two. But today her status would change. Her husband had told Martin about their marriage when Martin saw her at the Stromiehre signing. So he would go into private meetings the day before the U.S. House vote, and she would kill Philip Martin, slowly, very slowly. She’d avenge Daphne and the Herculean crew that died at Lytle’s hands.
The day before at the Stromiehre contract signing, she’d been bored. Even the U.S. Secretary of Commerce yawned as the pens passed between signers. Martin, however, had been gushy toward her. She had his confidence since she’d gained him entrance to Room 1515. He revealed his itinerary to her. A mistake he’d regret.
She glanced at the clock, 5:30 a.m. She’d only slept five hours. Enough for her, adrenalin would carry her through the day. Peacock rolled out of bed and grabbed a file labeled January 6th meeting. Pendleton didn’t stir. She slipped into the suites’ kitchen and started a big pot of coffee brewing. She took her camera-watch and Pendleton’s folder. Turning the pages with a napkin, she photographed a page, hit send, and then hit delete. After twelve such maneuvers, she closed the folder and set it back in his briefcase.
Rigel’s voice greeted her as she poured the coffee. “Twelve clear copies received.”
“Um hum.”
Peacock took a cup and carried coffee to her now half-grumbling, half-awake spouse. “Good morning darling. Six o’clock, your coffee’s waiting for you.”
“Evilly well done.” Rigel laughed in her ear, then disconnected.
Pendleton had pushed up on his elbows by the time she came back with her coffee loaded with cream and sugar. The aroma of French Roast in the morning tantalized her.
“How can you be so happy?” Pendleton asked. “You’re giggling before you go to sleep and cheery when you wake up.”
“Because you’re with me. I’m a bitch by myself.”
“So what are you going to do today with me away at meetings?”
“I’ll work out at the Health Club. Then maybe I’ll get one of those Hawaiian massages.” She removed her teddy and twirled around. “And then, if you’re not back by six, I’ll get juiced up at Bar Fifty-Nine. You can find me there if no one wants to give me a go.”
“You’ve got the tongue of a salt, and I love it,” he said, and rolled out of bed. “Wait for me and we’ll shower together. Maybe that will increase your sex drive.”
“Promises, promises,” she giggled and turned on the shower.
Chapter 22
As Peacock exited the elevator, Philip Martin waved her over. “Thank you so much for these directions, Laverna. They should cut the time to the airport by at least twenty minutes.”
You won’t thank me a few minutes from now.
“Bearing right onto B8 and bypassing E35 until closer to Frankfort avoids the construction.” She feigned a smile. “Arthur’s off to some boring meeting. Will you join me for breakfast?”
“I can’t.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m catching an 11:45 flight. The airport security screening will take over an hour as it is.”
He hesitated, then turned back to her. “You’re a shrewd woman, married to Pendleton, and working for him at the Emerald. I admire you.”
“Let him leave,” Rigel whispered. “Then follow him.”
“Safe trip back, Phil. Don’t be a stranger in Room 1515.”
Martin headed away and Peacock hurried to her car. She’d parked one level below him. If things went as planned, she’d catch up to him where the ramp onto B8 and Bonner Strasse was closed for repairs fourteen miles away from the Intercontinental
Hotel. Herculean techs would take over from here overriding the GPS in Martin’s Passeo with directions of their own, leading the poor soul into a dead end with Peacock behind him.
“This payback is for revenge,” she said with a growl. Killing Martin wouldn’t be fun for either of them. For her a sadistic thrill, no more—no less.
Fifteen minutes later with Rigel’s help, Peacock pulled up at the dead end entrance ahead of Martin and out of sight. Martin’s car swung past her a moment later and onto the broad two-lane road. She pulled out and followed him for a quarter mile until the barriers blocked him. He waved to her when he saw her car pull up behind his. He got out of his car and called out. “Thank God you followed me.”
She opened her car door and waved. “I needed some fresh air and saw the road closed sign.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out her weapon of choice. A dart hit his neck and he fell lifeless to the ground. Peacock put the blowpipe back in her purse and tied Martin’s hands and feet. She pulled out an explosive device from her trunk and attached the weapon to the underside of his car next to the mud flaps. She set the timer for fifteen minutes and grabbed Martin’s briefcase. With Martin tied up, and he and his briefcase in the backseat of her car, she backed up and drove away.
Damn, she thought, I didn’t have to use any of my car toys.
Rigel directed her onto the Autobahnkreuz back toward Dusseldorf. At the speed she traveled, she’d be twenty miles from Martin’s car when the devise exploded. After the twenty minutes were up, she stopped at a shoe store and tried on some pumps. Her prey slept soundly in the back of her Aero.
Halfway between Dusseldorf and Duisburg, Peacock slowed and turned down a pebbled side road. She drove until she was well away from the highway, passing small farms until she came to a spot preselected by Hercules. No one was in sight in any direction.
“I’m here,” she said, “just me and the sheep.”
“Roger that,” Rigel answered.
Moaning from the backseat disrupted her concentration. She pulled over onto the left side of the road and popped open her trunk. In the wheel-well was a black bag, she pulled the bag out. Martin attempted to sit up, so she opened the door to the backseat and pulled him out legs first. His head hit the ground with a horrific smack.
“Why are you doing this?” he yowled.
“I’m asking the questions, Phil. Where is the man called Lytle?”
A flash of recognition showed in his eyes. “I haven’t seen Lytle since I visited with Holman at the Emerald.”
“Do you know how to reach him?”
Martin’s head dropped to his chest. “You’re the name Daphne was going to give me.” A groan was followed by tremors. “I’m dead.”
“Correct.”
Peacock balanced herself on the balls of her feet and squatted down. Her low rider jeans tightened. Her turquoise snap-shirt separated revealing more than she’d expected Martin to see.
“But I can be reasonable,” she said. “I can kill you without any more pain. If you cooperate and tell me everything you know.”
“Please don’t do this. I have a wife and three kids.”
“Third wife—hasn’t seen the kids in months,” Polaris said, having come on duty. “Miss me.”
“No. You’re an egotist.”
“What?” Martin looked around, trying to see if someone else was there.
Peacock grabbed her switchblade and cut off Martin’s little finger on his right hand. His screaming startled her, and she glanced about to see if anyone appeared.
“You haven’t seen your kids in months,” she whispered as his screaming deafened her for a moment. “Do you know how to reach Lytle?”
His body trembled from shock and fear. “No. When Lytle wants to reach me, he calls me.”
“On your cell phone?”
“Yes. God, stop the pain.”
Peacock ran her hands through Martin’s pockets until she found the phone. “Do you know a man named Thomas Reed?”
“I heard his name mentioned at a meeting with your husband. But I’ve never talked to him.”
“Who was at this meeting?”
Martin coughed. He looked wildly around, then tried to roll away and stand up. Peacock chuckled as she stomped on his left ankle with her Western-style boot. He’d receive no mercy from her. He hadn’t seen his own kids in months, the bastard. What kind of a father was he?
“Britain’s top leadership, the W.F.C. board, and agents from MI6 were there. They gave me the assignment of seeing the Stromiehre contract passed.” When Martin pleaded like a sissy, she stomped on his right ankle and popped a bone straight through the side.
“Kill me,” he wept.
She ignored him. “Daphne was to meet you at the Bristol. Why weren’t you there?”
“Lytle contacted me and told me to go home.” Martin looked up at Peacock, eyes red, and sweat pouring down his face. “He said he’d take the Hercules project off my hands, and I should attend to the election.”
“I had to kill Daphne for her treachery. I blame you. You slime ball.”
“You should blame Lytle, not me.”
“You don’t seem concerned about Daphne. It may interest you to know she died quickly. You won’t.”
“You have his briefcase?” Polaris asked.
“Yes.”
“He has no more information for us. Kill him and blow up the body. Then go back to the hotel and send as many photos as you can of the contents of Martin’s briefcase before your husband comes up for dinner.”
“Okay.”
Peacock grabbed a small spiked strap from her bag. She beat Martin with the strap, letting out her revenge on him for Daphne’s death. When his screaming changed to whimpers and groans, she stopped. Turning to one side, she dropped the strap and grabbed her switchblade. She swung around stabbing Martin through the throat at the Adam’s apple.
“There, that wasn’t so bad,” she cooed, as he gurgled and bled out. She left the knife in until the bleeding stopped and then pulled it out and wiped it off.
“I’m sending his phone directory to you,” she said to Polaris.
“Good.”
Peacock placed a bomb similar to the one that blew up Martin’s car under Martin’s body and set the timer for five minutes. She strolled to her car and drove away back down the pebbled road.
“I’ll be pulling into the InterContinental Hotel’s parking lot by the time the bomb goes off.”
“The Aero’s not that fast.”
“Watch me.”
As she accelerated onto the Autobahnkreuz, she asked, “What was Martin worth?”
After a slight pause, Polaris said, “seven-million dollars and change.”
“I think I’ve made his children and his exes very happy.”
“Not for several years,” Polaris said. “His car set off numerous explosions. I doubt it will ever be identified as a car. His body will vaporize and all evidence will vaporize as well.”
“That’s environmentally sound,” she said, trying to stop the adrenalin rush that still rocked her body. Killing Martin was moral righteousness. She had acted nobly. He deserved to die the way he did.
My husband will either be vilified or sanctified by History, she thought. Depending on which side wins this war of subversion, she might suffer the same fate as Martin one day. Someone exactly like herself might torture and kill her, feeling justified in doing so.
Her smile faded.
#
Pendleton scrawled copious notes as he sat to the right of Prime Minister Claymore. With British intelligence agents guarding the doors to the hotel’s business center conference room, SIS Director, Jarvis Franks, delivered his report on the progress of accessing the U.S. space-based missile banks. His voice was upbeat, but his body language said he’d rather be somewhere else.
“Doctor Cline peppered us into their main complex center. He trained our people on accessing the U.S. programming in a jiffy. We avoided the intercept security an
d entered the individual firing banks. That’s the good news.”
“And the bad news?” Claymore asked.
“Our people can’t bloody duplicate the numbering sequences fast enough. We’re several nanoseconds off and haven’t improved a wit since November.”
Sir Jarvis wasn’t the naïve chap Pendleton deduced him to be when they first met. This project stressed Franks. He didn’t take to stress, but he handled himself admirably.
“We’ve been through six progress meetings now if my count’s right. We’re not making the expected progress. Is Professor Cline to fault or our people?” Claymore asked.
“I can’t say,” Franks replied. “I’m not a scientist. They point fingers at one another. I’m guessing our science is short. We’re learning as we’re going.”
“I’ll talk to Cline,” Pendleton said. “With Stromiehre now in the supply chain, Cline will get us the rest of the way. We’re eighty percent there. We knew the project wouldn’t be a walk in the park now, didn’t we?”
“Keep us advised, Director.” Claymore waved her hand.
Franks did an army shuffle, spun around, and left, probably happy to be trotting back to jolly ole England.
“Odd fellow Franks,” Claymore said. “He does his job. He’s a good man in a pinch. But at the rate he’s going he’ll die of a coronary before he’s sixty.” The Prime Minister scowled at Pendleton. She shook a finger at him. “Why are you dealing with Cline directly?”
Amusing, joisting with Grace, Pendleton enjoyed her direct indirectness.
Because, I want him in my pocket you old bat.
“He responds to money, Madam,” Pendleton said. “I control the purse strings.”
“But you’ve involved no one else.”
“He knows your MI6 contact.”
Pendleton gave her a comfortable pat on the shoulder. Her MI6 contact was in Pendleton’s employ and a Son of Tiw. “I understand how to motivate him. He’s leaving for Monaco in a few weeks for a vacation. I’ve procured the best in accommodations. He’ll be escorted by three different female courtesans--Monaco's finest. I’ll meet with him the day he leaves. I’ll see to it we’ve made some progress before he goes on another vacation.”
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