Spyder Web

by Tom Grace

  In reaching out to take his mother, death had taken on a new meaning for Nolan Kilkenny, one that numbed his heart with cruel grief and denied his mind a sensible reason.And for the first time in his life, death was personal. Kilkenny wanted to strike out against his mother’s killer, but the disease was as efficient and unemotional about death as he had been. In another part of his mind,Kilkenny now questioned whether or not he could again take another life.

  Nearing the end of the pool, he reached out for the side and prepared to flip-turn into another lap. Instead of touching the smooth tile wall, his hand grazed a warm, firm leg. Startled, he abruptly stopped and lifted his goggled face out of the water. On the pool’s edge sat Kelsey Newton, smiling back at him.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get your attention for the last two laps. If this didn’t work, I was going to jump in after you. You’ve got a phone call,’ she said, her voice both sympathetic and concerned. ‘It’s Captain Dawson.’

  Kilkenny nodded and stripped off his goggles as Newton pulled her supple legs from the water and walked back to the pool office.

  He pulled himself from the cool water and quickly ran a towel over his dripping body before entering the office and picking up the phone. ‘Kilkenny here, sir.’

  ‘Nolan, I know you’re on leave, but a situation has developed that requires our immediate attention. Tickets have already been cut and are waiting for you at the airport.’

  Part of his mind cursed at the thought of being pulled back, but he knew Dawson wouldn’t have called unless he’d had to. I hope it’s a quick one, Nolan thought as he copied down the flight information, knowing he couldn’t refuse the summons.Next month, I’m a full-time civilian.

  ‘I’m under way, sir.’

  2

  LITTLE CREEK NAVAL AMPHIBIOUS BASE, VIRGINIA

  Kilkenny followed the yeoman into Capt. Jack Dawson’s office. Kilkenny stood two inches taller than his commanding officer, but the difference in their physiques exaggerated the distance. Dawson’s sturdy, well-muscled ebony frame and severely cropped hair often caused complete strangers to mistake him for one of the Washington Redskins. In contrast, Kilkenny’s taut, lean carriage and freckled Irish skin reminded people of nothing more than a marathon runner in need of a strong sun-block.

  An unexpected wave of nostalgia swept over Dawson as Kilkenny reported for duty. They’d first met six years earlier, when Ens. Nolan Kilkenny reported to Coronado for BUD/S, Basic Underwater Demolition/ SEALs training. Dawson had taken one look at this wiry redhaired college kid and saw nothing more than a future Pentagon technoweenie who’d wash out before the gruelling middle-stretch of the nine-week program known as Hell Week. Dawson had been wrong.

  ‘Take a seat, Lieutenant,’ Dawson ordered as he returned Kilkenny’s salute. ‘Nolan, do you remember why you became a SEAL?’

  Kilkenny knew this wasn’t small talk, and he wondered about the motivation behind Dawson’s question. ‘Yes, sir, it was the challenge. I knew that command of the SEAL squad would test my limits, both physically and mentally.’

  ‘And do you remember who encouraged you to undertake this challenge?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Rear Adm. Roger Hopwood.’

  Like Kilkenny, Rear Admiral Hopwood was a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy. Hopwood had also swum for the Academy, and Kilkenny’s performance with the team during his senior year caught the admiral’s attention. The admiral was also a decorated SEAL, and he now served as NavSpecWarGruCom, commander of the navy’s Special Warfare Group.

  Upon learning that Kilkenny was both an accomplished scuba diver and a black belt in the Isshinryu style of karate, Hopwood took the future ensign under his wing and encouraged him to join the SEALs. It was Hopwood who also made sure that Dawson, who then oversaw SEAL training in Coronado, received a carefully edited file regarding Kilkenny’s background. It wasn’t until Kilkenny flattened the hand-to-hand combat instructor that Dawson became suspicious. Roger Hopwood loved surprises, and the quiet Ensign Kilkenny was a ringer. Kilkenny not only survived SEAL training, but excelled and eventually became one of Dawson’s most valued squad leaders.

  ‘That’s right, Admiral Hopwood is one of your sea daddies. Now here’s the situation.’

  ‘Situation’ was Dawson’s polite way of saying that the Pentagon had an ugly job that needed to be done quickly and quietly.

  ‘How well do you remember Haiti?’

  ‘Well enough to get around if I had to, sir, but why Haiti now? I thought things were pretty quiet down there.’

  ‘Take a look at this tape and I think you’ll understand.’

  Dawson punched the play button on the VCR and the image of a Haitian fishing village filled the screen. Center frame was the recognizable face of Jean Arno, the junior Republican congressman from Florida.Arno was smiling and talking in fluent Haitian French, which was no surprise, since the lawmaker was the youngest son of Haitian immigrants.

  Accompanying the congressman were his aides, relief workers, and a few military officers. An officer near the rear of the group caught Kilkenny’s attention; it was Admiral Hopwood. The whole scene looked like a wellchoreographed photo opportunity designed to show the viewing audience at home how well American aid was working in Haiti. A loud popping sound from the jungle preceded a dizzying spin by the camera before it struck the ground. Though now skewed at a bizarre upward angle, the camera kept rolling, recording the screams of people and rapid blasts of approaching gunfire. Legs rushed past the lens, captured in their panicked flight. Then a group of men in black emerged from the jungle, spraying bullets wildly into the crowd as they entered the camera’s view. Soon, the only sounds to be heard were those of gunfire and the cries of the dying.

  One of the figures in black stood alone in the center of the village, dispassionately watching the carnage unfold. What struck Kilkenny most about the man was his eyes; they displayed nothing save a ruthless efficiency.

  Are those my eyes in battle? Kilkenny wondered.

  Three minutes into the massacre, several of the blackgarbed men dragged Arno and the surviving Americans before their leader. This man looked over the prisoners, stopping at the congressman, whom he viewed with disgust.

  ‘Fool!’ he spat in Arno’s face. ‘Will you never learn that your kind are not welcome in Haiti!’

  Arno and the others remained silent, denying the man any satisfaction he might find in their pleas for mercy. The leader studied his prisoners carefully as he finished a cigarette, weighing their fate in his mind. A flick of his fingers sent the smoldering butt arcing to the ground. He stared down for a moment, then pulled the machete from his belt and swung furiously into Arno’s neck. The others joined their leader, quickly hacking the Americans to death in an orgy of blood and violence.

  Once the Americans were dead, the leader raised his bloodstained machete and ordered his men back into the jungle. The raiding party left with their plunder and several female captives. Soon, the only sound that remained was the buzzing of flies under the hot Caribbean sun.

  Kilkenny swallowed back the bile in his throat as Dawson stopped the tape.

  ‘What you just saw happened yesterday. The central figure in this massacre is Etienne Masson, the leader of a tribe, for lack of a better word, that controls a large piece of rain forest surrounding Jacmel. He was a twenty-year veteran of the Haitian military and even attended the Green Beret program at Bragg before going native.’

  ‘So he’s not one of those cardboard generals we usually find in Third World hellholes.’

  ‘Just the opposite. Masson doesn’t seem to be after anything. While our troops were there, he laid low. He doesn’t care who is ruling Port-au-Prince as long as they stay out of his way. His cabal doesn’t even have a name, but the people living in their shadow call them la Mort Noir, the Black Death. What you just saw was the first bit of carelessness on Masson’s part.’

  ‘The camera,’Kilkenny answered, the gruesome images still playing in his mind.

  ‘Right. His m
en took out the cameraman first, but nobody bothered to get the tape. This is the first time that anyone outside of Haiti has seen Masson in nine years. The Haitians have tried to deal quietly with him on their own, without much luck. After yesterday, the Haitian government not only approves of the United States taking action; they expect it.We’ve got carte blanche, as long as we’re quiet about it. Everyone over there is scared shitless of this guy.’

  ‘Understandably so; it looks like he actually enjoys killing people.’

  Dawson sensed something beneath the surface of Kilkenny’s comment. He knew that Nolan was taking his mother’s death hard. He’d experienced similar feelings of self-doubt following his own parents’ deaths several years ago.

  ‘Masson does enjoy killing, and he’s good at it, but he’s not like you and me. We’re trained to kill, but we do it only when we have to. Masson is something else altogether.’ Dawson slid a folder bearing the CIA logo across his desk to Kilkenny. ‘Here’s the intelligence briefing on Masson.What’s known of his activities reads like a voodoo version of Apocalypse Now, with Masson playing the role of Colonel Kurtz.’

  Kilkenny began thumbing through the intelligence report. ‘Fine, what’s the op?’

  Dawson slipped a thick binder of materials across the desk to Kilkenny, then leaned back in his chair. ‘Quiet in, quiet out.You and your squad will launch in minisubs from the Columbia, six miles off Haiti’s southern coast. You’ll land on a remote beach and go hunting incountry. Your orders are to seek out and destroy the enemy.’

  Kilkenny looked over the preliminary mission time line. ‘A three-week op in December is cutting it a little close, sir. My tour is up at the end of next month.’

  ‘I’m well aware of your status, Lieutenant, and I know that you’re ready to get on with your life. I want you to know that I wouldn’t have called you back without a damn good reason.’

  ‘I know,’ Kilkenny replied, staring at the picture of a pair of young SEALs in Vietnam that Dawson proudly displayed on his wall. ‘Adm. Roger Hopwood.’

  Dawson looked over at the picture. ‘Jolly Roger and I go way back; we toured Nam together. I owe that man my life. He’s the reason JSOC chose us to carry out this mission. This is war, Nolan, and we need some meateaters on this op.’

  Dawson stood up and Kilkenny snapped to attention. ‘Lieutenant Kilkenny, you are to assemble your squad and brief them on this assignment. Go over the plan and be ready to brief me on your deployment preparations at eighteen hundred hours. Whatever you need, you’ll get. This one’s for Hopwood.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  3

  NEW YORK

  November 25

  Alex Roe slipped out of bed and into the oversized Georgia Bulldog sweatshirt that she’d left on the floor the night before. The shirt draped from her softly curved shoulders to a point on her thigh that was an inch below immodest. She pushed the sleeves up past her elbows, ran her fingers through her disheveled shoulder-length brunette hair, and set about finding something to eat. Roe firmly believed that her daily regimen of diet and exercise had kept her lithe body free of the fatty deposits that accumulate on so many people over the age of forty.

  Inside the master bathroom, Randall Johnson was in the midst of his morning ablutions. She marveled at the beauty of the renovated turn-of-the-century factory that now housed Johnson’s multilevel condominium. Many of the building’s original architectural features remained exposed, lending an historic flavor to the contemporary elements of modern living.

  The sun, barely over the horizon, poured light through the tall arched windows of the condo’s great room. Long shadows cast by the morning light exaggerated the depth of the brickwork’s relief; the terracotta details formed a study in contrast.

  In the kitchen, she ground some fresh gourmet beans and started the coffeemaker. The morning was cold, but pleasant for November in New York, and, after digging out from an early snow, the city was preparing for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving parade. Roe took an apple from the refrigerator, sat down at the sunlit kitchen table, and spread out the morning paper.

  Twenty minutes later, she finished her morning reverie, poured another cup of coffee, and walked into the den, where her laptop computer sat waiting for her. With the machine switched on and herself recharged, she set about the task of completing her article by deadline.

  Her story on Pangen Research was nearly complete, requiring only a few finishing touches. She was engrossed in a fine point of grammar when Randall Johnson entered quietly behind her, wearing only a robe cinched about his waist. He peered over her shoulder and read some of the text.

  ‘You better not misquote me, Alex. I want to come across as an intelligent and decisive financial officer who just happens to be a great guy.’

  ‘Hmm, a CFO who is intelligent and decisive, yet still a great guy. Aren’t those conflicting traits for someone in your position? I’m not sure the readers of NetWorth magazine would believe that.’

  ‘From what you’ve told me, neither would your editors.’ ‘That, my dear Randy,’ Roe replied while nuzzling his freshly shaven neck,’goes without saying. Editors, by their very nature, are a cynical lot, prone to doubt any journalist’s objectivity.’

  ‘I would doubt your objectivity, too, if I knew you’d spent the night with a key player in your story.’

  Roe pulled away from Johnson’s neck, feigning betrayed surprise. ‘Et tu, Randy? Though the occasional editor may criticize minor points of my work, none have ever questioned the quality of my research or the depth of my interviews.’

  Roe stood and pressed her hand into the matted hairs on his chest, pushed him back into a leather wing-back chair, and straddled his lap. Johnson was six inches taller than she, but the position of their bodies allowed her to gaze down at his salt-and-pepper hair. His body had softened slightly over the past twenty years, but neither of them were college students, and both found that the matured version of their old flame was still quite attractive.

  Cradling him against her breasts, she began to kiss his forehead, slowly working her way down to his mouth. Johnson’s arms caressed her back beneath the sweatshirt, gently massaging the muscles along her spine.Her mouth pressed deeply into his; their tongues engaged with a feverish intensity. Gradually, the kisses softened and the embrace grew gentle and close.

  ‘I don’t have a problem with the depth of your interviews, either.’ He pulled back enough so they were eye-to-eye. ‘Now remember, Pangen Research is the hottest biotech company you have ever seen and their CFO is both brilliant and a great guy.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she answered dutifully. ‘You know, this insecurity over my article is really unbecoming. I don’t recall you ever being this nervous back in college.’

  Johnson slumped back in the chair. ‘Back in college, I didn’t have twenty-five million dollars of venture capital and an IPO riding on some term paper. It’s not your article that’s got me on edge; it’s everything with this little company. My little company.’

  Johnson stared through the window without really looking at anything. His mind instead focused on the events that had led to his present role as the financial shepherd of a hot young biotech research company.

  ‘When those scientists came to me with a proposal to bring gene-therapy technologies out of the lab and into medical practice, I believed in them. They had these Nobel Prize-caliber ideas and no clue how to get a company going. I did a little investigation on their work and found what may be the next high-growth industry. It was like discovering Apple back when it was in the garage. I worked damn hard to design a workable business plan, and my board bought into it. In less than two years, I’ve built a company that’s ready to go public, a company that owns a patented stable of purebred retroviruses that could start the biggest medical revolution since antibiotics.’

  ‘You have a serious case of mother-hen syndrome. Pangen is a textbook example of venture capitalism at its best. You’ve got a group of idealistic research scientists with a vision
and no money, matched with a savvy young financier who makes the dream come true against incredible odds. When you’re finished launching this company into the golden land of NASDAQ,we’re writing a book about your adventures.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he replied coyly, ‘but only if I grant you the rights to the story. I, of course, will retain the movie rights. I wonder whom we can get to play me.’

  Roe gave him a reassuring hug. In public, he was the Rock of Gibraltar—exuding confidence and focused leadership. Pangen Research owed its very existence to the forty-two-year-old man in her arms.He was preparing to let his fledgling company go out into the world on its own. Like any parent when a child finally leaves home, he felt the same pride in his work and the same worries about the future.

  ‘Thanks, Alex, for everything. The past few weeks have been unbelievably tough for me. Your timing couldn’t have been any better.’

  ‘Actually, it’s an accident I came at all. I just happened to be available when NetWorth needed a piece on Pangen for a special issue. Freelancer’s motto: Have Computer, Will Travel. Discovering a long-lost love was an unexpected bonus. I am glad that I found you again.’

  They held each other close in the morning light.’How did I ever let you get away?’

  ‘As I recall, you felt it would be best if we started seeing other people.’

  ‘That, Little Miss Smart-Ass, was a rhetorical question. You don’t answer those kinds of questions. You just nod your head politely.’ His expression softened as his thoughts retraced their shared history.

  ‘I know, Randy. Harvard and UCLA were half a world apart then.’ Her mouth curled into a light smirk as she peered into his eyes. ‘You didn’t have to take that scholarship.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Johnson replied as he slipped her off his lap and leapt onto a long coffee table in front of the couch, balancing himself as if he were riding the California surf. ‘I could’ve tossed my Harvard MBA and gone surfin’with you. “If everybody had an ocean, across the USA.”’