“Is there anything else?” Song asked the question, while presuming what the answer was.
“No, General Secretary. Except, of course, to reaffirm my employer’s admiration for what you do and represent, and to request, if possible, an approximate time-table for any anticipated hostilities with the renegade province to the east.”
Song looked at Ching with something wavering between anger at the audacity of the request and respect for Ching’s delivering it with a level of confidence that actually presumed he would provide an answer, patronage or no patronage. Song held Ching’s eyes in a penetrating stare for over two minutes without speaking. Ching consciously blinked only two or three times each minute and refused to lower his eyes.
With a slight nod of his head, Song said, “There may be hostilities in one to two weeks, or not. That decision has not yet been made. Suggest to your employer that he should not pose such questions again.”
Ching rose, bowed and left the room without another word.
Inwardly, Song fumed at Chen’s demand. He understood the balance he walked when he had taken Chen’s financial and other support, but after having survived two assassination attempts, he was in no mood to be threatened, nor was he anyone’s puppet. The information he provided was enough and as much as he was willing to give to Chen.
. . .
The White House
Washington, D.C.
0830 Hours EST
Katherine turned off her burner cell phone, just as Susan had taught her to do all those months ago. Before she took office, she had ordered Susan to make quiet contact with the NSA to determine how she might call someone without fear of the call being intercepted. They had, of course, proposed an elaborate electronic scrambling situation that was far too cumbersome before mentioning clandestine purchase of a burner phone would accomplish much the same thing, but was much less secure. They had even offered to provide such a burner phone. The phone they had provided was carefully kept in a steel, soundproof container in Katherine’s special footlocker in the President’s bedroom. Unknown to her, however this phone had a voice scrambling system to disguise the sound of her voice, making it even more secure to anyone monitoring all the calls flowing through the nearest cell tower to the White House. Katherine also had Susan purchase two of the burner phones at a suburban discount department store (without the voice scrambling capability) and set them up for Katherine’s exclusive use. They were also kept in another steel, soundproof box in the footlocker. She retrieved one of them now.
When the phone rang, her heart began to beat at least twenty beats per minutes faster than normal. That isn’t to say her heart raced. No, after all, this was merely necessary housekeeping. Nothing that should overly bother her.
On the forth ring, a male voice answered. “Speak.”
Katherine said softly into the phone, “There is a mess at my estate out West. You need to clean it up. Quietly. Let the state funeral grab all the headlines. It must be done discreetly and I don’t care if it is painful. In fact, that would be a bonus. Any investigation can be squashed, if necessary. Ten times the normal donation. It can be done?”
She was surprised that she was actually holding her breath for the ten seconds before hearing the response, “Okay, but the donation will be twenty times, and in advance.”
Her initial reaction was a flashing fury, before she calmed down and simply said, “Get it done.” With that she hung up the phone.
On the other end of the line was a very close family friend that had spent a great deal of time at the Fontaine Estate. Overtly he knew Katherine only superficially, but he was considered one of Walter’s minor drinking buddies and on the outer ring of his close acquaintances.
With that detail handled, Katherine replaced the burner phone and walked out of the Presidential bedroom to begin another day of ruling. She had decided to postpone any action regarding the FBI Director for the time being. He appeared to be willing to keep things under wraps and when Walter was no longer a problem, it all might just go away. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but begin to hum a tune under her breath.
Chapter 47
The New Year - Plus Forty Days
The Mountains of Southeastern Afghanistan
O600 Hours Local Time
Ali al-Hadiz put on his SCALP suit, with protective gas mask, for the fourth time to enter the small, sealed, cavern. Even through the gas mask, the stench was noticeably bad. The two naked men strapped to the stainless steel table had died very painfully, two days after their symptoms began to show. Now the cadavers were decomposing rapidly, causing them to first inflate with internal gases, and then to erupt internal fluid and tissue from several places. All four of the Afghan soldiers had been stricken by the virus, along with the aid girl. Their symptoms had appeared about forty hours after having been locked in the cavern. The Afghan soldiers were all dead, but surprisingly the aid girl continued to breath. She sat on a bench against one wall and dully looked at Ali’s covered form, as he entered the cavern. Beside her were three bottles of a food supplement drink from the U.S. called Ensure. They were empty and the girl was trying to open a forth.
Through his mask, in English, Ali said, “Aid girl, can you hear me?”
The girl looked up and seemed to focus on him for the first time. “What? You speak English?” Her arms, visible where she had rolled up the sleeves of her robe, had only a couple of slowly healing, open sores. Although very weak, her mind seemed to be clearing. Her clothing was soiled from an apparent attempt to help the dying Afghan soldiers in the cave.
Ali decided it might be interesting to study her further, possibly even using her to create a vaccine for the newly engineered virus.
“I will bring you a clean robe and soap and water to wash with, aid girl.” He then walked out of the cavern to the door, made out of corrugated steel, and walked out of the horror chamber. He looked forward to observing the girl wash up through the cameras recording all activity in the cave.
Behind Ali, the girl just looked at the closing door and said softly, “My name is Julie. Someday, God will repay you all for what you have done and you will know my name.”
. . .
The Pen and Ink Saloon
Frankfort, Kentucky
1915 Hours EST
Tank sat at the table in the small, upstairs meeting room. He tried to gauge the level of comprehension and competence of the man who would lead a team on a raid at 8:00 a.m. the next morning. The raid wasn’t sanctioned by anyone in Coyote’s chain of command, but would tell him whether Kerry had been blowing smoke about the riches to be had in his neighborhood. The team was equipped with raid jackets proclaiming them to be part of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. The target was the first three houses inside the main entrance of Kerry’s neighborhood. Their orders were to take two empty trailers and eight men to search the houses for contraband. This could be guns, stores of food or obvious valuables. The team leader would provide a voucher that would signify paying a low-ball estimate of the value for all the items seized. No itemized listing would be made. The voucher would list in ten words or less, the items taken. In a weird twist of Tank’s personal sense of humor, the voucher itself was a forgery with the name “Oregano Julius” authorizing payment. Tank had grown up loving the cold, sugary, ice cream drinks available at the local Orange Julius in Lexington, Kentucky, at least whenever he was lucky enough to visit the town.
Tank dismissed his team leader and called in a man who was not officially on any team. The man was tall, with a long, gray beard. He had been a strike breaker back in the 1970s and 1980s, in the coal fields of Eastern Kentucky. He was getting older, but he knew how to do things discreetly, yet violently. He also didn’t much care who felt the hammer, so long as
he got paid. He had received five hundred dollars just to come to Frankfort and meet with Tank.
“It’s been a long time,” Tank said casually. “Have any trouble finding the place?”
In a deep, grizzled voice, the man said, “Nope.”
“Okay, then,” Tank said. “Got a little project for you, if it can be done with no splash back, you know, like you used to do back in the day. You picky about it maybe involving someone high-profile? Even with a security team?”
The man looked at Tank with a cold stare in his pale gray eyes. “How much do you want this?”
Tank said, “You will probably need some help, so let’s just say fifty thousand to get the whole thing done, and I can even provide you with some pretty impressive firepower. Interested?”
The man thought for a moment, before saying, “Make it a hundred and give me more details.”
For the next twenty minutes, Tank tiptoed around the whole project, giving the man details about what he would need to overcome, to including a military escort. He then offered up three weapons systems, including two 1980’s era LAWS rockets, a machine gun called a SAW, and two Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifles.
The man finally asked, “So how soon do you want the Governor killed?” Tank had not mentioned the identity of the target.
“Well, what makes you think…”
The man cut him off. “Cut the bullshit, Tank. Who you think you’re talkin’ to? Has to be that asshole, but what’s with the Guard soldiers in the mix?”
Tank dropped all pretenses and said, “Ever since the President set up the Regional Governors and quit working with the Governor, he’s been operating like he’s still in charge. Some of the fools in the National Guard even seem to want to help, so there are going to be a few of them around, helping out his Kentucky State Police security officers. To hell with them all.”
“Now if he’s such a pain in the ass to the President’s people, why don’t they just take care of it themselves?” The man seemed genuinely curious.
“They are. They sent me and I called you.” Tank made the declarations softly, but the man understood immediately.
Twenty minutes later, the man agreed to take care of the problem within the next few days for a price of $250,000, half up front and half when the job was done. It also had to be paid in gold, based on gold values measured a year earlier. A very reluctant Tank shook his hand and decided he would charge Coyote’s Chief of Staff a half a million, in year-old gold.
. . .
The Fontaine Estate
Outside of San Francisco, California
2355 Hours PST
Walter’s eyes fluttered open as he lay draped over the flimsy, expensive divan Katherine had purchased at some antique auction, with Foundation money, of course. When he tried to roll off of it, he slid on the silk covering onto the floor. Not, however, before nearly tearing off one of the divan’s now-rickety legs He was seriously drunk, with that cotton-mouth feeling that left his mouth sticky and tasting like something had crawled in there and died. He slowly looked around the room, searching for the bottle that must inevitably be there. His eyes focused on the bottle of fine brandy laying on its side on the floor, now at eye-level. He could tell there was at least a quarter of the expensive liquid left in the bottle, as he looked at the night light through the glass. A significant puddle of spilled brandy was pooled on the bamboo wood floor under the bottle. With an effort, he recalled this was the second bottle he opened later the previous evening after those Goddamned Secret Service pukes had refused to allow him to leave or even call anyone. He had desperately wanted a woman to run her hands and her lips over his body. Never again would he have the exquisite Su Ling. This thought sent him into depression again, so he reached for the bottle and took a long, slow pull on its contents. Maybe he’d have to take the estate housekeeper again, although it had been fifteen years since he had paid her last and she had not aged very well, even for an oriental woman. As he drifted out of consciousness, all he could think of was the phrase, “Any port in the storm…..”
Chapter 48
The New Year - Plus Forty-One Days
The Mountains of Southeastern Afghanistan
O800 Hours Local Time
Julie recalled having sipped on the lukewarm bottles of Ensure, days earlier, as she watched the four Afghan soldiers beginning to suffer strong symptoms from whatever disease these monsters had created. Now her mind was clear. She felt quite a bit better than she had the day before, when Ali had been so surprised that she was still alive. Her slight fever had broken completely, soon after he had brought her a bucket of water, soap and clean robes. Actually, it was Ali’s two assistants who had brought the items. Both assistants bore frightened looks that were plainly visible through the gas masks they wore. Ali had then ordered them to bag up and drag out the dead bodies. Under his breath, one of the assistants told the other, in Arabic, not to worry because Ali said he would be able to make a vaccine from the blood of the “aid girl whore.” The fear in his eyes belied his faith in the statement. He neither worried about nor cared that the girl might hear him, as she was nothing more than a laboratory animal to be used for experiments. They continued to talk freely as they went about their grim task.
While carrying out the last body, the talkative assistant also commented to the other, “Be sure to look around carefully, Ali wants to document everything onto that laptop he keeps locked up in his cave. I wonder how he convinced his sister to get it for him.”
The other aid replied, “I don’t know and I don’t care. Have you ever seen Jasmine’s eyes? I think I’m more frightened of her than of Ahmed.”
“Shut up, you fool!” The first aid hissed this warning softly under his breath. “That kind of talk will get your throat slit, or worse!” Their conversation died as they passed outside the corrugated steel door with the last body and down the cave tunnel.
. . .
The Broehm Residence
Outside of Cronin, Kentucky
0830 Hours EST
Mike Broehm was just rising from his breakfast table to begin his cold, winter day when a twelve year old named Randy came bursting through the back door of his kitchen without knocking. He was gasping with excitement and from running to Mike’s house as he made the announcement. “Mr. Mike, come quick! LT said fetch you right now!”
The words tumbled from the boy’s lips as he reached for Mike’s arm, paused and thought better of it, and said, “Please, Sir! Come quick!”
Mike always had his pistol on his hip, so he grabbed his coat and followed Randy out of the door. He then followed the impatient boy toward the entrance of the neighborhood. He could see a small crowd of people gaping at the group of four security personnel standing over what appeared to be two men laying on the cold driveway of the second house inside the neighborhood entrance.
Approaching one of Linda’s security people, the man motioned to Mike to enter the house. When he entered he could see a group of five men tied up on a bloody floor and three men were kicking them in the ribs with heavy boots. Mike barked out a loud, “Stop,” causing the men to stop what they were doing. Glancing at him, the men lost some of their blood lust and assumed the hang-dog guilty look of boys caught with doing something wrong.
Just then Linda seemed to materialize out of nowhere, dragging a mean looking man with his elbow bent the wrong way and his hands tied behind his back. Linda threw the man down into the pile of men on the floor and motioned for Mike to follow her outside for a quick briefing.
Although out of earshot of the prisoners, two of Linda’s security teams were listening by the open doorway. “Mike, these six criminals were captured after having kicked in the front door of this house and ransacking it. They also
brutally beat the elderly homeowner and his wife and killed their little dog. After interrogation, the one I just finished with claimed they worked for Tank Monahan, under the umbrella of Homeland Security. You probably recall Tank’s name from my earlier briefings of the Frankfort situation. The overt purpose of their criminal acts was to seize foodstuffs and other items required for redistribution. Their real purpose was to steal whatever was of value and take it to Tank.”
Linda finished her briefing and the security team dragged out the six captured goons from the house. Laying them beside their cohorts laying in the driveway, Mike could see most were being treated for injuries to their heads, faces, as well as their arms and legs. Linda had apparently brought along one of Sean’s security team that was a trained Special Forces medic, to oversee the treatment. “What happened to them?”
Linda said, “They never knew we spotted them as they rolled into the neighborhood. The two left behind to watch their truck, trailer and SUV were obviously more interested in what their buddies were doing inside than in looking out for trouble. It usually gets smelly when they get choked out using the carotid method to put them down. You know the neck choke that cuts off blood to the brain without actually killing them? By the way, Mike, if you hadn’t insisted, we would have simply killed them. Not sure why you want to take the moral high ground here, but my guys, especially the ones with no combat experience probably appreciate it. Anyway, the carotid technique usually ends in loss of bowel and bladder control. They went down quietly, so my two best men took their coats and hats and went inside, followed by two more of our men. Classic pincer move with myself and three others coming in quietly from the rear of the house. Not a shot was fired, although it did take a couple of well-placed rifle butt strokes to get their attention. When we walked in, we saw the bastards hitting and kicking the homeowner and his wife, who were bleeding on the floor. Well, let’s just say these cretins were properly subdued. Somehow I doubt they will be kicking or hitting anyone else anytime soon. Tough to do with broken knees and elbows. I took the leader aside for a private chat and learned about their orders from Tank.”
The Final Proclamation (An America Reborn Thriller Book 2) Page 25