by Gina Cresse
“No. I didn’t report any issues,” Raul responded.
“No. It looks like a Marie Marcos opened the ticket. She elevated the incident to the highest priority. Apparently, your payroll may not go through if we don’t get this solved.”
“I wasn’t aware of any problem. Have you resolved it yet?” he asked.
“I haven’t been able to log onto your UNIX box. The representative who wrote the trouble ticket must have botched the ROOT password. I’ve tried several times, but it keeps denying me. Can you please confirm the modem phone number and password for me?”
“Sure. Hang on a minute. I’ll get that for you.”
I carefully wrote down the information Raul so willingly supplied me. I remembered from past experience that whenever payroll was in jeopardy, normal security protocol got tossed to the wind.
“Thanks, Raul. You should see me dialing in shortly. Hopefully, I’ll have it solved in a jiffy. From what Marie reported, it sounds as though we just need to add a data-file to your User-Data table-space.”
“Just so we all get paid tomorrow. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“I will. Thanks for your help.”
I logged into the server and assigned Robert Kephart a new password. It was almost too easy. Spencer would have been proud of me.
I connected to Kephart’s account in VideoService again, then sailed right through the secondary password. I issued a payment order to transfer funds to my new account and assigned it an execution date of tomorrow. Then I shut down the computer, found my way to a comfortable bed and crashed.
Chapter Twenty-one
The next few days proved to be completely relaxing and uneventful. I communicated with Uncle Doug daily about the progress Peter Cunningham was making on the story. He told me our chat-room witness had shown up, but that was all he knew. Peter was not about to let out any information that could jeopardize the safety of the informant.
I sat down on the sofa with a bowl of ice cream and turned on the ten o’clock news. I only gave the broadcast half my attention, reserving the other half for the coffee almond crunch in my bowl. Then, out of the blue, I heard a familiar name—Carl Hobson. Dozens of reporters were hounding him as he tried to maneuver his way into his DC office. I turned up the volume and set the half-eaten bowl of ice cream on the coffee table.
“Mr. Hobson, how do you respond to the accusations that you deliberately and willfully caused the crash of Flight 9602 last year, killing everyone on board?” one of the reporters grilled him, then jammed a microphone in his face.
“I have no statement at this time,” he coldly answered, then disappeared through his office doors.
The cameras returned to the commentators. “There you have it, Joan. That was CIA Director, Carl Hobson, who, earlier today, was accused of planning and carrying out an elaborate plan to assassinate two DEA agents on their return flight to the United States from Mexico last year. As of yet, we don’t have all the details. We’ve been trying to get a comment from the President, but he has not given us any statement.”
“Ted, any idea who would have directed Carl Hobson to perform such a barbaric act? Surely, he wouldn’t have been acting on his own.”
“As I said, Joan, we have no details, yet. Apparently, a witness turned up with overwhelming evidence to support the accusations against Hobson. There has also been some mention that Claude McCormick, the CEO for GoldBank, is somehow involved. Again, Joan, this is all just speculation. I’m sure things will clear up as we get more information. For now, this is Ted Provost, reporting live from the CIA D.C. headquarters. Back to you, Joan.”
The last E-mail document from Hobson to Kephart flashed through my mind. His determination to take down everyone he could possibly name if he were ever in this position replayed in my head. I wondered how many names he had already sung out.
The next story brought a tear to my eye. The camera crews were camped out on Amanda Powers’ front lawn, waiting to get an interview with her. The cameras zoomed in a close-up shot on a little girl peeking out the window of the house. The happy little face with the sparkling eyes I had seen just days before was now streaked with tears.
Finally, Martha Powers came to the door and offered a brief statement. “My daughter-in-law has no comment for you right now. Please, leave her alone. She’s been through a terrible ordeal. This family needs some peace. Please, respect our privacy. Thank you.” Then she closed the door.
I felt badly for her, but at least now the truth would come out and the people responsible would be brought to justice.
The entire news broadcast was devoted to reporting the Hobson incident. Experts predicted indictments would start being handed down as early as the following week. A Senate investigation would likely be launched simultaneously. Nothing more was reported about the identity of the witness.
I turned off the TV and carried my melted bowl of ice cream into the kitchen. I heard a rattling noise coming from the back porch and went to investigate. It was probably that rascally raccoon that had decided to set up camp under the back stairs. I’d started throwing out scraps of food for him. He became a small nuisance, rattling the garbage cans at night while I tried to sleep. I peeked out the window of the back door, but didn’t see him anywhere. “He must have heard me coming,” I said to myself as I turned back toward the kitchen.
That’s when I saw her. She stood behind the door separating the kitchen from the back porch. Shocked to see her, I started to speak, but a man grabbed me from behind and put his hand over my mouth.
I recognized Kerstin immediately, but I had no idea who the brute was dragging me through the house. He shoved me down into a kitchen chair and the two of them tied me to it. I wondered if it could have been the same man I saw with her in her kitchen that night in Geneva.
“What are you doing here, Kerstin?” I demanded.
She looked at me, her eyebrows pushing down closer to the bridge of her nose. Those were angry eyes. She probably wondered how I knew who she was. She had no idea I had spied on her.
“Oh, I think you know what this is about,” she replied.
“How did you find me?”
“My new friend here, Mr. Khan, has all sorts of resources for finding people,” she responded. Her smugness turned my stomach. “Now, where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“Robert’s computer. Where is it?” she demanded.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have the computer. It was worthless, so I gave it away,” I said.
Khan had wandered off into the other room, probably to search for the laptop. I’d left it on the desk in the den. It wouldn’t be hard to find. I could see if from where I sat.
Then he called, “In here.”
She pointed a bony finger at me that translated to, “stay put and shut up—or else.”
The two of them argued over who would operate the computer. Finally, I heard her insist she had watched Robert access the account hundreds of times, and she could get it done much faster. Khan gave in to her persistent demands and stepped aside. She fumbled her way to the VideoService software and got connected. The two of them were silent for several minutes. Then, the silence was broken and her rage flew.
“What have you done with it!” she screamed as she ran back into the kitchen, pointing that finger at me again.
“What have I done with what?” I replied. My calmness infuriated her.
“Why, you little—” She got set to take a swing at me. I closed my eyes and prepared for the blow. Khan entered the room just in time to grab her wrist.
“Wait a minute, Kerstin. Losing control is a sign of poor character. Never lose control,” he lectured as he pulled her away from me.
“She stole our money and you expect me to stay calm? Robert was right. You are an idiot.”
If looks could kill, I’m sure she would have died on the spot. The two of them obviously shared no affection for each other. Their only point of commonality was gree
d for the money in that bank account.
This time, Khan did the finger pointing—right in Kerstin’s face. “Now, you just sit down there and keep your mouth shut, woman! I’ll take care of this situation. I don’t want to hear another word out of you. Understand?” His cold, dark eyes could have belonged to the devil himself.
Instantly, Kerstin shut up. She took tiny steps over to a chair across from me and melted into it. She laced her fingers together and laid them in her lap under the table.
“Now, Miss Lace. Why don’t you tell me how I can collect the money owed to me—plus interest—from the bank account you’ve apparently confiscated?”
“The money is gone. I donated it to the UFO Foundation of the Planet Earth. If you had gotten here yesterday, I could have helped you out. Like they say, timing is everything.”
“That’s very funny,” he laughed. Then he produced a gun from inside his jacket. He pointed the barrel directly at my head. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The smirk left his dark face. “I will ask you again, Miss Lace. This time, you will not mess with me or I will blow your head off. Understand?” He pronounced each word very deliberately to assure my comprehension.
Kerstin’s eyes grew wide with fear he would carry out his threat. “Are you crazy? You can’t kill her yet—not until we get our hands on that money. She’s the only one who can access it.”
“Shut up!” Khan shouted, then turned the gun on her. “I’m sick of listening to your whining voice. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard. One more sound out of you, and I’ll put you right out of my misery.”
“So much for maintaining control,” she grumbled.
He took aim, one inch to the left of her left ear, and fired his weapon. She didn’t say another word. He returned his aim to my head and asked his question again.
Before I could speak, we were all startled by the crashing sound of breaking glass. Suddenly, there were armed men in black uniforms with full helmets and bullet proof attire advancing from all sides. They shouted for Khan to drop his weapon. He maintained his aim on me as if it would ensure his safety. I held my breath, not knowing just how crazy or desperate he might be.
Two men directly behind him stood like statues with their high-powered rifles aimed at his head. Another marksman kept his post in the hallway leading from the dining area to the back of the house. One more advanced from the back porch and drew a bead right between Khan’s eyes. The standoff lasted a full two minutes. Sweat poured off Khan’s face. His hand began to tremble and I worried he might fire the weapon accidentally. Finally, he laid down his gun and gave himself up.
Then, two familiar faces entered the kitchen—agents Cooper and Willis from the FBI. I felt like a chicken that had just been rescued from the fox by the coyote.
Kerstin and Khan were handcuffed and taken away. Cooper untied my hands and feet and checked to see if I had sustained any wounds.
“We’ve been chasing you all over the country—all over Europe, for that matter. What the heck did you think you were doing? Why wouldn’t you let us help you?” Cooper demanded as he slammed the ropes down on the table in front of me.
“Why? So you could finish me off after you missed me the first time on my boat?”
“What? Finish you off. What the heck is that supposed to mean? You think we blew up your boat?”
“What was I supposed to think? It wasn’t until after I came to you that my boat was destroyed and my friend Jason was almost killed.”
“First of all, we have your friend Jason in protective custody until all the players in this little episode are rounded up and corralled.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Cooper cut me off. “Secondly, it wasn’t us who blew up your boat or caused your friend’s car accident. You can thank Carl Hobson for that. Just between you, me, and the fence post, some very wealthy and powerful people donated unbelievable amounts of money to get our current President into the White House. Those people would have been destroyed if the news of their involvement in the Mexican drug cartel got out. Not to mention several major U.S. banking institutions that would likely be crippled if the Mexico-based company couldn’t repay its loans. We now believe someone in the White House directed Hobson to have Powers and Norris taken care of—to protect those people. We knew the CIA used Kephart as an asset in other operations involving assassinations of third-world military leaders.”
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. “I thought stuff like this only happens in the movies.”
Cooper shook his head. “Kephart brought Khan into the picture because of his electronics expertise. We had been looking for Khan for months before you came to us with that device you found. We knew he was one of the few people around who could build one. Every time we’d get close to him or Kephart, Hobson would throw a monkey wrench into our investigation. By the time we confirmed what you had brought to us, you’d flown halfway around the world. When we tried to bring you in for your own protection, you led us on this crazy wild-goose chase. I ought to lock you up right now just so we can keep an eye on you until this whole thing is over.”
“Then it was Hobson who killed Joe?” I asked.
“No. That credit goes to Mr. Khan. Apparently word got out in the organized crime circle that a friend of Joe’s came across Robert Kephart’s trademark weapon. Evidently, there was a rather large sum of money owed to Khan by Kephart. Khan assumed whoever found the gun probably found the money, too. When Khan confronted Joe and demanded to know the identity of his friend, Joe refused to tell, so Khan killed him.”
I didn’t feel any better knowing that Joe died trying to protect me. I’d probably need years of psychotherapy after this was over.
“What’s going to happen now?” I asked.
“No doubt you’ve seen the news of the Senate investigation. Turns out Frank Eastwood, one of the FAA investigators who was presumed dead, has turned up alive, and with some very interesting information.”
“Frank Eastwood? So, he’s the chat-room informant. That explains how he knew so much about the crash. What will happen to him? Can you protect him until this is over?”
“We’ll do our best. Eastwood doesn’t put much trust in the Bureau. In fact, we still don’t know where he is, exactly. The reporter from the L.A. Times has him hidden away someplace and won’t tell anyone where.”
“How long before we’re safe?” I asked.
“Good question. Could take months, or even longer. Hobson and some other pretty significant players are likely going to be indicted. Charges have been filed against people in the CIA, FAA, FBI, and even the White House—and that’s just concerning the murder of the two DEA agents. Then there’s the whole issue of the Mexican drug cartel being financed by U.S. banks and investors and that whole conspiracy. It’s going to take months to sort through this mess and until it’s all over, I’m not sure you’ll be completely safe to walk the streets. I would highly recommend you let us take you into the witness protection program until this goes to trial.”
“Let me think about it. I need to talk to some people first before I make a decision.”
“Don’t think about it too long. In this world, it’s a short trip from being safe and sound in your cozy little boat to being fish food for hungry sharks.”
“Believe me, I know,” I said. I thought of starting a new life again, just as I had when I bought the Plan B. All alone, once more. Safe, with no one to threaten my own little world. I thought of the people who had helped me through that ordeal—Uncle Doug, Aunt Arlene, Jason, and of course, Craig. I had a lot of thinking to do.
Chapter Twenty-two
It didn’t take long to make my decision. I opted for my own witness protection program. It was called Plan C—formerly known as The Jewel. After making some sizable donations to a few of my favorite charities, I went directly back to Del Mar and bought the sixty-foot luxury sailing yacht. Uncle Doug made a very nice commission on the deal.
I had a few loose ends to tie up before I could set sail.
I bought Jason a new car since his was destroyed in the accident. Also, I bought him a brand new laptop computer. Then there was the matter of rebuilding Doug and Arlene’s dock in Del Mar, which came to way more than I ever dreamed, plus the repairs to their vacation house in Tahoe. Those FBI guys busted the front door and three other windows. What a bunch of animals.
I also set up large trust funds for Joe’s wife, Sarah, and for Amanda and Emily Powers. It would never replace what they’d lost, but at least they would never have to worry about finances for the rest of their lives.
One thing I’d forgotten to consider when I’d purchased my sixty-foot dream—even with auto pilot, it was not quite the same as sailing a little thirty-five foot sloop around the harbor. I would require a crew to help sail her. How would I find someone who could pick up and leave for several months to island-hop around the Caribbean? And more importantly, who could I stand to be around for that length of time, confined to a sixty-foot living area. That would be tougher than I first thought. But with Uncle Doug’s assistance, I put together a crew that was up for the challenge.
So for my thirty-sixth birthday, there I was, floating somewhere in the middle of the clear blue waters of the Caribbean, sipping on some exotic drink with a pink flower and umbrella sticking out the top. The sun was warm on my bare legs and the big floppy sun hat I’d picked up in St. Thomas kept the sun off my nose. I spent the morning being entertained by a school of porpoises that decided to clown around off the stern of the boat. I hadn’t read the legal section of a newspaper in weeks and I hadn’t looked at a computer in just as many days.
The crew consisted of only two people. There was me, whose duties included cooking and deciding which island to visit next. I believe that made me the skipper. Then there was my first mate, who was something of a Jimmy-Stewart-type character. He was tall and handsome, and oh yeah, he also doubled as the ship’s doctor. That would be Craig. He didn’t cook at all, but he always warned me when I was about to be hit in the head by the boom.