Malice

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  Except for the occasional visit over the years, Lucy hadn’t seen much of Jaxon, a tall man whose square-jawed face was neatly framed on top by a gray crew cut. He’d recently returned to New York City as the special-agent-in-charge and just in time to help thwart an attempt by an Iraqi terrorist bent on exploding a “dirty” atomic weapon beneath Times Square on New Year’s Eve.

  “You said ‘we’ve’…as in ‘we’ve been staking out,’” Lucy said, hating what sounded to her like a suspicious tone in her voice.

  Jaxon did not seem to catch it. “Huh? Oh, yes, that’s Agent Octaviano Tavizon, formerly of the Albuquerque office,” he said, pointing to the young Hispanic man in blue jeans and a denim shirt who was watching them from the end of the bar.

  Tavizon nodded but didn’t smile or bother to come over and introduce himself. Instead, he turned his attention back to the big mirror that ran the length of the bar so that he could monitor the other patrons in the bar, the walls of which were decorated with Navajo blankets, the namesakes of long-horned cattle, and various examples of Western art, including several originals by the famous Indian painter R. C. Gorman.

  “He takes his job seriously,” Jaxon noted, turning back to the other two. “But I didn’t travel all this way to introduce Lucy to good-looking G-men. In fact, I suppose you’re wondering what brings me to Taos.”

  “I thought it was the silver-and-turquoise jewelry,” Lucy teased a little self-consciously, but determined to get past the strange feelings. “Or the green pork chile at Orlando’s New Mexican Café? Or perhaps you’re in the market for a saucy little señorita?”

  Jaxon laughed. “All except the last. My wife would kill me.” He hesitated, his face growing somber, then added, “And maybe one or two other things. Would you mind if we went someplace private…like your room?”

  For an instant, Lucy saw again the man surrounded by the smoke and flames and shuddered. “Of course,” she said, then added, “Can John come?”

  Jaxon looked at Jojola and nodded. “That may be wise, in fact. But remember, this is top-secret stuff. I’d ask you not to talk about it even with your folks for now.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Jojola said. “But I don’t need to—”

  Lucy cut him off with a meaningful look. “I want you to. Please.” She turned to the agent. “I trust you, Espey, but I’ve just been through hell back in New York, and I have a feeling that you didn’t fly here in your black helicopter to give me an award from a grateful government. If you’re here, there’s trouble not far behind; you’ll say what you need to say and then will leave to put out some other fire. I want someone here who I can trust to help stomp on whatever embers you leave smoldering.”

  Jaxon chuckled. “Fair enough.” He gestured with his hand for them to lead out of the cantina.

  Lucy looked back and noticed that Agent Tavizon was watching them leave in the mirror.

  “Is Agent Tavizon a field agent or a bodyguard?” Lucy asked.

  Jaxon gave her a sideways glance. “Your intuition is, as always, on the money,” he said. “He’s been assigned to watch my back. Good man for the job, too. He’s a former U.S. Army Ranger with tours in Afghanistan, Iraq, and places that he won’t tell even me about. My bosses have decided that it’s not wise for me to travel alone. Plus, it lets me concentrate on what I need to without having to be concerned about security issues. There are a number of other agents stationed around the inn as well.”

  The trio left the back of the saloon and crossed the Spanish-style interior courtyard, heading for Lucy’s room in an older—but more charming, she thought—part of the inn. The Sagebrush had been built in 1929 as a way station for travelers en route to Arizona and points west. It had also served as a magnet for artists and writers. The painter Georgia O’Keeffe had lived and worked there for a time, as had the novelist D. H. Lawrence, who began to write Lady Chatterley’s Lover in one of the rooms.

  The original building was now the cantina and lobby. The rooms were plastered with the ubiquitous adobe, featured ceiling beams of polished logs, and were furnished with heavy Spanish-style furniture covered in geometrical Southwest designs. The bathrooms were works of art with tiled floor and sinks, and many of the rooms boasted a small fireplace.

  Another young agent was standing guard outside Lucy’s room when they arrived. He nodded to Jaxon, opened the door, and then left without waiting for introductions or an explanation of how he got into her room.

  In answer to Lucy’s questioning look, Jaxon shrugged. “I’m truly sorry, but I took the liberty—in violation of your civil rights, I might add. I had to make sure that no one was listening in on any conversations taking place in your room.”

  Lucy thought of a few of the romantic nights she’d spent in the room with Ned and felt the blood rush to her face at the thought of someone listening to them. Call 1-800-RideEmCowboy, she thought.

  “Boy, Espey, you’re starting to scare me with all this spy-versus-spy stuff,” she said. “I’ve had quite enough adventures for this lifetime. I’d just like to settle down with my cowboy and have lots of little cowboys and cowgirls—if he’ll ever climb down from his dumb ol’ horse long enough to ask me to marry him.”

  She’s certainly changed, Jaxon thought. The girl he’d known for two decades had always been something of an ugly duckling—skinny and plain, with a beaklike, overly large nose. But during the past year of living in Taos, she’d filled out in the right places and was a tan, handsome, if not classically pretty, young woman. Even her nose seemed more suited to her face. Knowing her history, he thought it was a wonder that she was so well balanced. For some reason known only to God, she seemed to be a magnet for psychopaths like Felix Tighe and Andrew Kane. He had no doubt that settling down to life as a ranch hand’s wife would suit her fine.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be so mysterious,” Jaxon said. “The security is for me. Once I leave, so should the need for any concern for your well-being. I’m just hoping you can listen to something for me and, if you can, interpret it. You won’t have to be involved beyond that.”

  “Yeah, right, not involved,” Lucy replied sarcastically; then her brows knitted together. “Why do you need me to interpret something? You guys have linguistics experts at Quantico who are probably as qualified as I am.”

  “No one is as qualified as you are,” Jaxon responded gallantly. He paused as if to think something over, then, apparently making up his mind, said, “Let me explain a little about what’s going on.”

  Jaxon waited for Lucy to take a seat in one of the rustic aspen-wood chairs that were standard for the room’s decor. Jojola turned to the fireplace, which was Lucy’s favorite feature of the room, and began to build a fire.

  “Okay, let’s have it,” Lucy said.

  “Well, first thing to get out of the way is that I’m no longer with the FBI,” Jaxon replied. “In fact, officially, I’m not with the government at all anymore.”

  “Not ‘officially’? So now you’re a spook with somebody like the Department of Homeland Security?” Lucy asked, her voice harder than she intended.

  She knew that her aversion to the department was unfair—that most people who worked for the department, which had been formed after the 2001 terrorist attack on the World Trade Center, had the country’s best interests in mind. But there was something about the department’s leadership that rubbed her the wrong way. They seemed almost cartoonish with their silly, different-colored “terror alerts” that had done little except raise fears only to call the all-clear with no explanations…sort of like the boy who cried wolf. But more than that, she disliked how they defended every gouge at civil liberties in the name of the War on Terrorism as if it weren’t yet another step down the slippery slope. After all, it wasn’t really spying on the American public as long as it was in everybody’s best interest.

  To her relief, Jaxon shook his head. “I’m not with the department either. Officially, my group doesn’t exist and very few people know
that we do. Even the director of the FBI knows only that I suddenly decided to take early retirement. Outwardly, my reason is that I’m blaming myself for Andrew Kane’s escape and the massacre of those children and agents. But we’ve planted rumors that have more to do with me selling out for a very well-compensated position with a private security firm. The bureau isn’t very happy with me because I hand-selected a half dozen of the best agents I knew and took them with me into ‘private practice.’ However, for your ears only, I remain a humble, underpaid public employee, as does my team.”

  Lucy frowned. It wasn’t like Jaxon to make speeches, and this one didn’t sound quite true…or maybe just not complete. “If you’re still a fed, couldn’t you use their resources?”

  Jaxon shook his head. “As far as the bureau is concerned, I’ve gone over to the dark, well-paid side. We’re mercenaries. They wouldn’t touch us with a ten-foot stun gun. But that’s intentional on our part.”

  “So I assume you’re another government antiterrorism agency?” Jojola asked. “I thought the whole reason behind the Department of Homeland Security was to bring all agencies under one umbrella so that you guys would communicate and work together.”

  “It was, and still is,” Jaxon said. “There are a lot of good people fighting a war that few members of the public know is happening, except as military actions in far-off countries and the occasional bombing in New York, Bali, Madrid, or London. But as for me and my people, we’re not specifically antiterrorism but sort of trying to track organizations that might be using terrorism to further their own unrelated ends—like Andrew Kane demanding a billion-dollar ransom for the Pope while his terrorist pals planted bombs in the cathedral in the name of Allah. I can tell you that I was asked to take this assignment shortly after the debacle at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, when it was clear that our agencies—including my own—had been infiltrated and compromised by traitors. I guess you could say we’ve been asked to watch the people who are supposed to be doing the watching.”

  Jaxon paused and shook his head sadly. “The truth is, maybe I should have retired after the St. Patrick’s hostage crisis was over,” he said. “A lot of it happened on my watch.”

  “That’s nonsense, Espey,” Lucy said. “Who could have guessed at Kane’s intentions? So, then, who do you work for?”

  “I can’t say,” Jaxon replied. “And if you ask elsewhere, the government will deny our agency exists.”

  Lucy whistled. “Like Mission Impossible.”

  “Or when they sent us into Laos in sixty-nine,” Jojola added softly. “We were to supply recon for marines, but the mission didn’t officially exist. And if we were killed or caught, we would have simply disappeared in the eyes of our government.”

  “So who’s behind this infiltrating and compromising?” Lucy asked.

  “That’s the million-dollar question, Lucy,” Jaxon answered. “If we knew, we could cut the head off the serpent and the body would die. But we haven’t been able to get anyone close enough yet to understand how they’re organized or what their real aims are. Hell, we don’t even know if they have a name they call themselves. They’re not out there like al Qaeda or Hamas claiming responsibility for acts they did or even didn’t do.”

  “If they’re so secret, how do you know they exist?” Jojola asked.

  “Good question,” Jaxon answered. “I hope that my mission here tonight will help establish that. But up to this point, all we know is that there seems to be an organized group that is flying under the radar but manages to manipulate and use other people, even other organizations—including terrorists—to achieve its ends. One other thing we know is they are absolutely ruthless—so ruthless, if my guess is right, that they were willing to murder the Pope and a couple of thousand people as part of their plan.”

  “I thought Islamic terrorists and Kane were behind that—for their own ends,” Lucy said.

  “They were,” Jaxon acknowledged. “But that doesn’t mean that Kane and the terrorists weren’t being assisted by someone else for purposes even they may not have realized.”

  “Do you have any suspects?” Jojola asked.

  “Well, we have a name, Jamys Kellagh,” Jaxon said. “Who he is, no one seems to know. However, we’re told by informants that he seems to have been playing the middle man between Chechen extremists, Kane, and perhaps people in our own government, as well as the Russian government. But other than a name we have nothing—no photographs, no way of identifying him. We don’t even know if Jamys Kellagh is a real name or an alias.”

  “So I assume all of this has something to do with what you want me to listen to,” Lucy said.

  Jaxon nodded. “Sorry to give you such a long story and provide so few answers. However, just a few days ago, we received a recording of a conversation purportedly between Jamys Kellagh and someone higher up in this organization. We’re told it’s important and may involve a plot in New York City.”

  Lucy sighed. “Of course. Why not? Just paint a target on Manhattan.”

  “I know how you feel,” Jaxon said. “My kids are there now, too, living with their mother in Midtown. Unfortunately, as a symbol of the United States there aren’t many better targets. But I have no idea what is being said in this message. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

  Lucy looked up and had to blink away tears. She considered New Mexico her home now, but she’d grown up in Manhattan and that’s where her family lived. She was tired of worrying about them. “So where’s this message?”

  Jaxon reached into his suit-coat pocket and pulled out a small device that Lucy recognized as an MP3 player. He reached into another pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag from which he removed a wafer-thin disc the size of a quarter and inserted it into the MP3. He handed the device, as well as a pair of earphones to Lucy, who put them in her ear and pressed the Play button.

  Lucy heard two men talking in a foreign language with the apparent older man doing most of the talking. The message only lasted twenty seconds and ended with what sounded like, “Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh.”

  Lucy hit the Play button again, then a third time before placing it back on the table.

  “So any ideas?” Jaxon asked.

  Lucy pursed her lips. “It sounds Celtic…a very old archaic form if I’m right…but nothing I’ve heard before. That last bit, ‘Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh,’ sounded like a sign-off…sort of like ‘See you later, alligator,’ though I suspect it’s not quite so innocent.”

  Jaxon looked at her for a long moment, then nodded and picked up the MP3 player. “Well, thanks for trying. I thought I’d give it a shot.”

  “Hold on,” Lucy said. “I said I didn’t know the language. However, with a little help from someone I know, we might get a translation.”

  “Who is this person?” Jaxon asked.

  “Just a guy I know in Manhattan,” Lucy replied. “I wouldn’t want to give up his name until I’ve spoken to him. But he’s spent most of his life studying the Celts—their languages and history. An odd duck, but I’d consider him the foremost authority in the United States. I’ll give him a call.”

  “You trust him?”

  Lucy smiled and nodded. “This guy lives with his mind in the twelfth century. I won’t tell him anything except that I need to see him about a translation. He’ll be happy to help. Like all right-thinking men,” she added with a wink, “he’s madly in love with me.”

  Jaxon chuckled. “Certainly any man who never changed your diapers, which leaves me out.” He was interrupted by a coded rapping on the door. “Come in,” he said.

  The door swung open and Agent Tavizon poked his head in. “Sir, the farmer we tracked down earlier is here asking to see the young lady.”

  “He’s a cowboy,” Lucy said. “Let him in.”

  Jaxon nodded and Tavizon stepped back. Ned Blanchet appeared in the doorway, scowling and looking like he was about to avenge the farmer remark with his fists.

  “Anything wrong?” he asked, walking over to Lucy wi
th an angry glance over his shoulder at Tavizon, who looked at him blankly, the way a shark looks at a fish when it’s not particularly hungry.

  “Not any more than usual,” Lucy said, and gave him a hug and a kiss.

  “Great.” Blanchet scowled more. “Just what I wanted to hear.”

  Jaxon shook Blanchet’s hand. He respected the young cowboy, who’d proved himself to be a man of action, certainly more than Agent Tavizon was giving him credit for.

  “So, when do we leave to see my friend?” Lucy said. She was getting impatient to get rid of the G-men so she could devote her attention to Ned.

  Jaxon looked at Ned. “Sorry, pardner,” he said before turning to Lucy. “But I’m going to have to ask Lucy to go with us now.”

  8

  GILGAMESH BARKED TWICE AT THE SOUND OF THE BUZZER announcing that visitors had arrived at the security door three floors below the Crosby Street loft. Karp scratched the dog behind the ears, got up from his easy chair to walk over to the apartment foyer, and pressed the intercom button.

  “Hello?” he asked. The visitors were expected, as they’d called from LaGuardia Airport to say they were on their way, but at nearly midnight in Lower Manhattan, it paid to be safe.

  “It’s Mikey O’Toole and Richie Meyers. Have we come to the right place?” a voice replied from the speaker.

  “You have, indeed,” Karp said. He pressed the button to unlock the security gate and then opened the front door to wait for the elevator to arrive outside the loft.

  When the elevator door slid open, two men began to step off with suitcases but stopped when they saw the enormous Presa Canario dog panting next to Karp, who noticed their expressions and chuckled. He thought of Gilgamesh as the family pet, but he sometimes forgot that many people took one look and immediately thought Hound of the Baskervilles, or maybe Cujo.