by Glen Carter
There was a knock at the cabin door.
“Come,” Rutter said. “That’ll be all, David. The sheriff will be waiting for your call.”
Stoffer nodded and left.
Rutter’s Middle East advisor shut and locked the door. He was tall and thin with grey hair and a Mediterranean complexion. He wore gold, wire-rimmed glasses perched halfway down his thin, aristocratic nose. “As-Salaam-Alaikum” Cooper Bahar said.
“Wa-Alaikum-Salaam,” Rutter responded. An Egyptian by birth, Bahar was the son of diplomats and a diplomat himself, whose postings stretched from Amman to Baghdad and Tehran. Educated at the University of Cairo and Harvard, his resumé, which required its own binder, also noted that he was the co-founder of the Washington Institute for Near East Policy. He was published, prolifically, with his own byline in half a dozen Israeli newspapers. Still, the New York Times once wrote that he was more “pro-Arab” than the Arabs.
Presidents came and went, hanging their heads with failures in the Middle East. There could be no peace. Let them kill each other, Rutter thought, with one apocalyptic free-for-all. When the smoke cleared, there’d be nothing left but oil-soaked rubble. Never again would a president have to kowtow to despots and dictators who thumbed their noses at the United States. If it meant giving them enough rope to hang themselves, so be it. As president, Rutter would turn a blind eye while Iran constructed its nuclear weapons. In the heat of religious fervour, that suicidal nation would abandon all sanity for the destruction of its sworn enemy. Israel would have no choice but to strike back. The conflagration would consume the entire region. Good riddance, Rutter thought. There was plenty of oil to go around, for any country with the muscle to impose its will. The largest members of that exclusive club of nuclear nations would carve up the spoils in orderly fashion, rather than allow greed to ignite an end-of-times nuclear war.
Bahar was an academic. He was a measured man, which was the luxury of academics. Rutter, on the other hand, was a man of action, and that was the obligation of all great leaders. “We have something in common,” Bahar had said to him at some Washington function. “We’ve both had the displeasure of meeting Jahmir Al-Saadi.” Rutter had rankled at the mention of his name.
Smug, Bahar moved closer so that no one would hear. “A brilliant man, but let’s just say his methods were somewhat unorthodox.”
Rutter had looked at him calmly. “Al-Saadi was an enemy.”
“Not when I met him,” Bahar said. “Only a scientist offering the riches of his research. His file was assigned to me at the embassy in Baghdad. Al-Saadi’s methods were even too abhorrent for the CIA, which was doing its own investigations into mind control. The man’s hypothesis was theory. His mumbo-jumbo about drug cocktails and electroconvulsive therapy to amplify a soldier’s zest for killing and to turn it inward, spawning waves of suicide by an enemy army. He was shown the door and was not too happy about it. Then Saddam invaded Kuwait. That’s when he became the enemy. Al-Saadi continued his work under Saddam’s sponsorship,” Bahar continued. “As you well know, Senator Rutter. Since you were once his ‘guest.’”
41
It was well after midnight when three knocks came at the door. Stoffer’s suite was on the top floor of the Hilton Hotel near Logan International Airport. He was on the phone, and at the same time, watching a panel of talking heads on CNN. He grabbed the remote and killed the volume, ended his call, and then got up.
He checked the peephole. Ryan was looking back at him. Stoffer opened the door and walked back to his chair. Motioned for the private investigator to sit.
Ryan brought a briefcase to his lap and clicked it open.
Stoffer looked at him expectantly. “I’m assuming this is important.”
Ryan pulled out a laptop, a notebook, and a small tape recorder. He dumped the case at his feet. “Trust me,” he replied.
While Stoffer listened, Ryan laid down the basics. People, times, and places. “Mind if I check my notes?”
“Go ahead, you’re not in court.”
In a flash, the notebook was in his hands. “Bolt spent most of the night on Abe Power’s boat. I won’t bore you with the exact timeline, but let’s just say they had a good old talk.” Ryan stopped long enough for Stoffer to ask any questions.
“Go on.”
Ryan turned on the laptop. After a moment, he placed the computer on the coffee table and clicked a file. A waveform appeared on the screen. “There are two voices to begin with. Bolt and Power,” said Ryan. “You’re gonna want to listen closely. Maybe have a drink handy.”
Stoffer leaned in as the tinny speaker came alive.
“That’s Bolt,” Ryan said.
“Shut up. I know who it is.”
It took ten minutes to hear the best of it. Then Ryan hit pause.
“Fuck,” Stoffer exclaimed.
“Fuck is right.”
“How do I know this isn’t doctored?”
Ryan gave him a “fuck you” face. “You wanna hear the rest, or should I just leave?”
Stoffer returned the look and then shifted his chair forward. The waveform continued scrolling. “Is that who I think it is?”
“You betcha,” Ryan replied. “Her protective detail swept the boat and stayed on the dock while she got cozy down below.”
“Quiet,” Stoffer spat.
“You asked.”
The volume was turned up, just as Sarah spoke, then Bolt.
“What were you doing at Kallum’s grave?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I’m waiting.”
Bolt was all in. Working his grift. Stomping all over her dead husband’s grave in some ghoulish fuckery. What a creep. Stoffer listened grimly.
“I came to unload this ghost. And the bloody pieces of his life.”
“Is this guy for real?”
Ryan paused the recording. “Bolt’s good, and he’s got the ear of the confused little wife. She’s being sucked in big-time.”
Stoffer slumped in his chair.
“And what’s even crazier, it’s coming from a man with the same fingerprints as a soldier the senator served with in Iraq.”
Stoffer got up. Pacing. “Give me the rest of it.”
Ryan checked his notes. “They bugged out.”
“Be more specific, please.”
“I mean they took off. Under the noses of two Secret Service agents, in fact. Three of them in a skiff.”
Stoffer turned to face him. “And the rest we know.” He filled Ryan in on Sarah Rutter’s alleged kidnapping and the subsequent arrest of four men. Bolt included.
“So, Bolt’s in custody.”
“I just got off the phone with the sheriff. They were sprung about an hour ago.”
“Will they go to the media?”
“To say what? That they had a time with the future First Lady and the Secret Service overreacted?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
He knew exactly what Ryan meant. He thought about it for a moment. “Bolt’s got a big mouth, and he’s talking a lot of crazy shit. And the fact he’s saying it so close to the senator’s home makes it worse.”
“With the big event coming.”
“Yes,” replied Stoffer. “The party leadership, including most of the people who’ll be running the country in mere weeks. They’ll all be in Harbour Rock to organize the final push.”
“To the White House.”
“Of course,” said Stoffer. There’d be a feeding frenzy over Bolt’s vile fantasies.
Ryan reached into his briefcase. “I’ve been doing a little research,” he said, pulling out a handful of newspaper clippings. He selected a few and offered them to Stoffer.
Stoffer took them. “So,” he said after a moment.
“The guy
in the picture. His name is Rory Prichard. He did a fair chunk of time after taking a baseball bat to his pretty little girlfriend. Doody scrambled his brains pretty good.”
Stoffer brought a headline to his face.
“The guy’s in handcuffs and leg irons, and when they’re hauling him off to prison, he lunges at Doody. Nice description of what happened. I’m surprised they could publish words like that.”
“Where’s the hero now?”
“He was paroled a long time ago. Now he’s living the dream at the edge of town. Gets disability money for his head. I drove by the other day.” Ryan smiled. “He keeps a shotgun next to him on the porch. And a jug.”
“And?”
“Maybe I’ll stop in next time,” said Ryan. “Reminisce with him about the good old days, when he could think straight and he was able to swing like a major-leaguer. Until Doody broke up the game.”
“Doody’s long dead.”
“But maybe not his son. Guys like this hold grudges a long time, even against DNA.”
Stoffer didn’t like it. Shit like this always found its way to the bottom of clean shoes. In this case, worn by a man who would be walking on the plush presidential seal in the Oval Office. His look said it all.
Ryan was ready. “The guy is on record with a vengeance. Literally. Years later, the apparent offspring of the man who nearly killed him comes to town. The prodigal son. All I’ve got to do is point him in the right direction and make sure there’s plenty in his jug.”
“Surveillance video caught you standing outside my hotel room. Which connects you—to me.”
“Come on,” Ryan said, shaking his head. “He’ll have no clue who I am, and besides, who’s going to believe a brain-injured drunk?”
Stoffer handed back the clippings.
“I think this puts me in a higher pay grade,” Ryan added. “Maybe something in the West Wing.”
Stoffer wouldn’t say another word. His silence said enough.
42
Bolt couldn’t move. The sand was deep, and he was in it to his knees. He tugged free a boot for another impossible step and then sank again, deeper this time. A storm of grit stung his eyes. It took everything he had to pull himself forward. To the tree and the squirming bundle at its base. The baby was covered in blood, its fat little arms reaching out to him. The face of an angel bathed in the flash of lightning. Bolt stooped low and placed both hands around the trembling flesh. Suddenly, the child began to scream. Scream so pitifully that Bolt had to cover his ears. The infant tumbled out of his hands and was swallowed by a whirlpool of sand. In a second, it was gone. Flames burst from the tree, forcing Bolt backwards. Away from the nightmare, to his bed in Harbour Rock.
The screaming continued.
Bolt jerked up. Shaking away the sleep, he grabbed his pants and stomped to the door, managing one leg in, then the other, as he pulled it open and launched down the stairs. He found her in the dining room, on the floor in a heap. Bolt swept the room with his eyes. No signs of an intruder. No blood on her. He knelt. Gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
Diana wept inconsolably.
The table was already set with her fine dishware. A pot of coffee, and pastries. The smell of bacon from the kitchen. There was an open laptop on the table. And Diana on the floor. Bolt reached for her, but she jerked away with a sob. “Diana.”
“That fucking bastard.”
The words were like daggers. She mumbled some more, so pitifully curled up and trembling next to him.
The computer screen was dark except for a large, blinking arrow. Bolt jabbed the space bar.
The screen came to life. He leaned in. Four soldiers in some kind of enclosure. They were stomping around like caged animals. Then they were attacking a door, making lots of noise. A few seconds later, the door swung open. It was Rutter holding a rifle. Younger, but no question who it was. The soldiers’ fists pumped air. Cheering all around. In the background, the sounds of gunfire. It didn’t take long for Bolt to see that something wasn’t right.
Rutter. Lower that weapon.
Bolt’s eyes widened at the sound of the voice. It was him. Not him, but Kallum. A second later, one of the soldiers was suddenly moving. The rifle exploded with a concussion that rattled the camera’s mic. Bolt jerked back as the man dropped.
Diana burst into another cry at Bolt’s feet.
Cursing his stupidity, Bolt stabbed the keyboard to kill the volume. Then one muzzle flash after another, with men falling. It took only a few seconds. The klieg light bathed the entire blood-soaked canvas, the murderous look on Rutter’s face. Kallum was the last man to drop. The scene then faded to black.
It was everything he had lived through during the session at Olaf’s lighthouse, in all its indisputable detail. Cold fingers encircled his gut. Bolt took a deep breath, then another. Diana had seen it all. The cold-blooded execution of her own son. “Diana, I’m so sorry,” Bolt whispered.
She looked up at him, her eyes spilling tears. He helped her to her feet. They hugged. She was shaking terribly and trying to speak, but it was all garbled up inside sobs and gasps.
Bolt was considering what more to say, when suddenly there were footsteps at the door. Liz Munroe stood quietly along with Nigel and Jeff. Trying to make sense of the moment.
Bolt nodded toward the laptop.
Liz stepped tentatively to the computer and hit play.
* * * * *
Liz carried a fresh pot of hot coffee into the dining room and placed it on the table. With his face glued to the computer screen, Nigel tapped the rim of his cup. Liz obliged. “It’s how I started in this business, fetching coffee for high-and-mighty producers.”
“It was good training,” Nigel said without looking up. “Taught you humility.”
“Taught me how to suck up,” she replied.
Bolt dipped his head around the doorway into the living room, where Diana was curled up on the couch, staring out the window and dabbing her eyes with a wad of tissue. She’d have the time she needed, alone.
Nigel paused the laptop. One of Diana’s photo albums was on the table, opened to a picture of a group of Marines. Cradling weapons in front of an armoured vehicle. Nigel tapped the picture. “Morgan, Oakley, Chongo, Doody, and Billy Rutter. The five of them in Iraq. All piss and vinegar.” He lifted the album for them to see. Nigel positioned the album next to the computer. “Bingo,” he said, pointing at the frozen image of bodies and the executioner. “Anyone doubt who the guy with the rifle is?”
Someone groaned.
“When did she get it?” Liz asked.
Bolt told her. There was nothing but the attachment and a few lines of Arabic script in the body of the email.
Liz pulled out her smart phone and took a photo of the script. She tapped the screen a few times and stuffed the phone back in her pocket. “Someone sent this for a reason,” she said. “Any guesses on who and why?”
Bolt had already been trying to figure that out. The email’s from line didn’t help any. They could try and trace it. But there were other questions right now.
“Why Diana? Why not Facebook or YouTube,” Liz asked. “Release it to the whole world.”
Bolt shook his head. “It was meant for Diana’s eyes,” he said. “The person who would be strongly motivated to see the evidence is handled right.”
“Someone righteous,” Jeff added. “Not political.”
Everyone agreed. The question now was what to do with it.
Nigel furiously stabbed the screen of his cellphone.
“Don’t,” Bolt said.
“Like hell.”
“Hang up.”
Pissed, Nigel ended the call.
“Kallum was her son,” Bolt said. “It’s Diana’s decision.”
Liz nodded. “Samuel’s right.”
Nigel folded his arms. “Your move.”
Diana suddenly appeared in the doorway. Eyes red, the ball of tissue in her clenched fist. “You want to know what I think?”
No one said a word.
“What I think is the world needs to see what Billy Rutter did, but I want Sarah to see it first, so that she understands why that bastard will spend the rest of his life in prison. That’s what I think.”
Bolt walked up to her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “The video will remain under your control, Diana. But Rutter must be exposed. That’s what Nigel is about to set in motion. Sarah will see it first, I promise.”
Diana nodded.
With that, Nigel disappeared to the kitchen.
For a few moments, Diana kept busy rearranging food, making sure everyone had had enough to eat. Who needed more coffee? She seemed to be holding up for now. In the meantime, Jeff was instructed by Liz to make copies of the video file.
Nigel pushed through the kitchen door, barely able to contain his excitement. New York had been given the highlights and was in a tailspin, including the head of network news.
It was decided that the network’s Citation jet would be flown up to retrieve Nigel and the ball-breaking video. Blood was in the water. Things were about to get very serious, very fast. It was also agreed that, if authentic, the material in Nigel’s possession was no less earth-shattering than the Zapruder film.
“Drive me to the airport,” Nigel said to Jeff.
Jeff stuffed a thumb drive in his pocket, and they started for the door.
Suddenly, Liz’s phone chirped. It was a text from a friend. An Iraqi diplomat at the United Nations she had moments ago asked to translate the Arabic script. She slowly read it aloud.
“The son of a dog is rising. Allah is exalted in might. Lord of retribution.”
* * * * *
Bolt ran from the house and jumped into a rental. When he arrived at the Vanderson gate, he planned to talk his way in. Sarah would see him, of course. Then he’d gently explain the reason for his visit. Sarah would demand to see the video, as painful as it would be. Bolt would provide whatever support she needed during the ghastly moments she was about to suffer. Bolt spent a few seconds wondering if the video was a fake, some political trickery designed to derail a man’s ambitions. He quickly cast aside the doubt. There was nothing fake about the rage he had experienced with each gunshot, each fallen man, and especially the slaughter of Kallum Doody. Revenge. Retribution. Each word rooted solidly in his brain. A duty to dead men and to himself. The bastard would pay.