Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense

by Carter Wilson

  “Wonderful,” Jonas said to himself. “Great publicity for

  America.”

  The security was tight and men and women wearing dark sunglasses and darker suits dotted the perimeter. The initial meetings this morning would be inside the hotel, and Jonas was part of a small group of dignitaries assigned to escort the delegation members into the conference. Most of the Israelis were staying at the newly built Four Seasons and would be taking limos to the Hyatt. The Palestinians were at the Brown Palace. President Calder hadn’t arrived in Denver yet, but when he did, he’d be staying at the Ritz.

  Jonas scanned the crowds and wondered if Rudiger was really in Denver. If so, was he watching Jonas right now? He swept his gaze a hundred and eighty degrees and saw nothing but anonymous faces and news cameras. How could the FBI and Secret Service figure out which face in a sea of faces meant trouble? It seemed impossible.

  To his left, a woman in a dark-grey suit with her hands clasped in front of her watched Jonas from fifty feet away. Her dirty-blond hair was pulled back tightly behind her head, and her corded earpiece was white, highly visible. Jonas made eye contact with her and she gave him the slightest of nods.

  She’s here to watch me, he thought.

  The thought of having his own security detail was intriguing, though he knew Rudiger wasn’t stupid. If Rudiger really wanted Jonas, nobody was likely to stop him.

  “Sleep much?”

  William Stages appeared on Jonas’s immediate left. “Not much. Enough. You?”

  Stages shook his head. “I’ll sleep next week. You here to do the meet and greet?”

  “I am. I’ve got Israeli detail. You?”

  “Palestinians.” Stages grabbed at the knot in his tie. “Goddamn it’s already hot as hell out here. Nothing worse than sweating inside a suit.” His corpulence looked suffocating.

  As they waited the crowds seemed to swell, though the barricades remained exactly where they had been all along. To Jonas, it felt like a tide of anger and frustration was coming closer to crashing on the shore. The protesters seemed louder, the streets hotter. He looked over at Stages, who looked more annoyed than worried.

  Maybe it’s just me, Jonas thought. Too little sleep, too much to do, and not enough time.

  He wanted to wipe off the gathering sweat on his forehead but his only options were his fingers or the sleeve of his suit coat. He let the perspiration build until a few drops rolled down the side of his face.

  “Here.” Stages handed him a handkerchief. “You don’t want them to see you sweating.”

  Jonas grabbed it and dabbed his face. “What, they don’t sweat?”

  “Not until it’s over a hundred and twenty outside.”

  Jonas took a deep breath and mentally worked to control his core temperature. He didn’t think about the long day ahead. The frustrations. The pressure. The miscommunications and the media spin. The pressure from the Senator. The demands of a President. He would let it all happen as it happened, and he would do the best he could, which he knew was usually enough. It would all be fine, and tonight he would sleep. Maybe he would even be able to share his bed with Anne, if she didn’t have to work all night.

  But as much as he calmed himself, Jonas could not escape the immediacy of the crowds surrounding the Hyatt. Then it occurred to him. He wasn’t tired. He wasn’t unfocused, or even worried about the Accords. It was something else, wasn’t it? The same sense Anne possessed. The sixth sense that makes the air still around you. The same sense Jonas remembered outside his apartment in D.C., right before Rudiger attacked him.

  He’s here.

  Rudiger is here. Right now. Somewhere out here. Watching me.

  Jonas swept his gaze over the crowd again, this time focusing on as many faces as he could, looking for the man with almost translucent skin and a jagged scar down the side of his head. But there were too many people, and they were too far away. Jonas could barely tell man from woman, let alone find the madman among them.

  “What’s wrong?” Stages asked.

  Jonas was pulled from his focus. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

  “You look like you want to kill someone.” Jonas tried to relax his stance. “I do?”

  “Yeah. Not the posture you want to assume at a peace conference. Just relax, will ya?”

  Just then a limousine arrived and Jonas knew it was the first car of the Israeli delegation. The protestors increased in volume, and Jonas couldn’t tell if it was in support or opposition, though no one in the crowd could really be sure who was inside the gleaming black sedan. There was only chaos, and that was never good.

  “This is you,” Stages said, nearly shouting in Jonas’s ear. Jonas walked up to the limo and waited for security to open the door. He looked to his left and saw the woman with the security detail sweeping the crowd.

  Jonas dabbed his forehead one last time. News cameras pointed down at him from the top of three separate news vans. A man who could have been a middle linebacker for the Middle East’s first football team walked around the limo and opened the car’s door. The first person to get out was not a staffer, as Jonas expected, but the Israeli Prime Minister, a small, balding man who wore the wrinkles of time and worry on his face like a badge of honor. He gave Jonas a firm handshake and a smile of true affection.

  “Mr. Osbourne, how are you?” he shouted. “Very well, Mr. Prime Minister. And you?”

  “I am very happy with your city here,” he said. “The views are beautiful.”

  Jonas didn’t correct him that it wasn’t his city, and he had in fact never been to Denver before. But such was the mentality of those from a country like Israel, whose entire land mass was a third of the size of Colorado.

  “Excellent. Right this way, please.” Jonas escorted the Prime Minister toward the porte cochere of the hotel as three Israeli staffers exited the vehicle and hurried to surround their boss. There were shouts from the crowd, and Jonas heard at least one “Go home!” The Prime Minister blocked it all out with the professionalism of someone who was used to hearing insults hurled at him, and he turned and took a few seconds to wave to the crowd. An Israeli flag bobbed for a few seconds in the sea of people before being swallowed.

  Jonas turned and touched the man’s elbow, a gesture meant to tell him it was time to go. Though the delegation was enveloped by security, Jonas couldn’t help but feel he was directly responsible for the Prime Minister’s well-being.

  Jonas felt the heat pour over him. Stages was right—sweating in a suit was miserable. The shouts seemed to grow angrier, as if the entire tone of a thousand people suddenly shifted.

  “We need to go, Mr. Prime Minister.”

  An Israeli security agent gave Jonas a look. The man wore the eyes of a soldier, and Jonas could read the expression on his face.

  Let’s get him inside.

  Then, for some reason Jonas would never fully understand, he looked up at the face of the towering Hyatt. He did so because, at that moment, something told him it was what he needed to do.

  Instinct.

  Rudiger Sonman stared down from a third-floor guest room window.

  Jonas saw him for maybe three seconds, but, even from the distance, there was no mistaking him. Rudiger wore a dark grey suit with a bright red tie, painted like blood against a white shirt. He stood with his hands loosely clasped in front of him.

  Jonas froze, his hand still on the elbow of the Prime

  Minister. The Israeli security agent leaned into Jonas. “What is it?”

  “It’s a threat,” Jonas said, his voice controlled but his mind racing.

  The security agent reacted immediately. “In, in!” The Israeli towered over the Prime Minister and hurried him back to the car, his body expertly blocking that of his boss’s from the front of the hotel. The three other members of the Israeli delegation panicked and scattered in different directions, but none in the direction of the Prime Minister. Within seconds the limousine tore away from the hotel and down the street, nearly running ov
er a Denver police officer who was trying to restrain the crowd.

  There were shouts from the crowd, none of whom knew what the situation was but all of whom knew there was indeed a situation. People looked up and all around, and everyone seemed to tense and wait for the inevitable sound of gunfire.

  Then people started to run.

  It started with a few people on the fringes of the crowd. Had they just walked away, there wouldn’t have been a problem. But they ran, which told the others something was going to happen. In the purest form of group panic, the others began to run as well, and it took only seconds before those who were most confined by the crowd struck out the hardest, running over those whose feet failed them.

  News producers screamed at camera operators to get everything, even though it wasn’t clear what there was to get. So the cameras whirled in frantic circles, looking for the best snippets of chaos for their live feeds.

  Police told people not to run. People ignored the police. Jonas had one last flash of Rudiger, who smiled down at the scene he created with no effort other than appearing in a window. He then looked at Jonas, raised his right hand, and made a sign of the Cross on his chest. Then he stepped away from the window, disappearing in the shadows of the hotel room.

  “What is it?”

  Jonas looked to his left and saw the woman who he’d assumed was part of his own security detail. She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she grabbed his arm and raced him into the hotel lobby, away from the pandemonium in the street outside.

  Radios chirped from every direction in the lobby. Curiosity seekers ran outside, while others from outside ran in. Nobody knew where to go or what to do, but standing still seemed the one thing everyone agreed not to do.

  Inside the lobby the woman flashed a badge. “Special Agent Difranco, FBI.” Her words were fast but clear, and she gave him a full two seconds to scrutinize her badge. “I’m part of a team assigned to you.”

  “That’s what I figured,” Jonas said. He was still looking around the lobby until she used her hand to point his face in her direction.

  “Focus on me, Jonas. What did you see?”

  “He’s here,” Jonas said. “I saw him.”

  “Rudiger?”

  Jonas nodded. “Upstairs. Third floor. Maybe fourth. He was standing in the window of a guest room.”

  Her hand squeezed her radio. “You sure it’s him?”

  “No doubt. Grey suit. Red tie. Looks bald. Maybe short blonde hair. Big scar—”

  “Yeah, I know about the scar.” She raised the radio to her mouth and repeated Jonas’s sighting and description to whomever was on the other end of that frequency. Jonas wondered if Anne was one of them.

  “I don’t think he was targeting the Prime Minister,” Jonas said.

  Difranco holstered her radio inside her jacket, which she opened long enough for Jonas to see the butt of her handgun. “No, I doubt it. What did you say to the bodyguard?”

  “He asked me what I saw and I told him a threat. Then he took off with the Prime Minister.”

  “Starting a fucking panic. Jesus, what a mess outside.” Jonas felt guilty. “I didn’t know what else to say.”

  “It’s okay. Just stay the fuck away from any reporters.”

  “You have a hell of a mouth on you,” Jonas said.

  “No shit.” A pair of hotel security guards ran to the revolving doors and stood in front of them. “We’re starting to block all exits. You could be helpful if you’re up for it.”

  “What do you need me to do?”

  “Canvas with me. Rudiger isn’t stupid. He’s already changed clothes and is probably wearing a hat. Stay in the lobby with me.” She led Jonas by the arm toward the front desk, where they had a better view of the lobby. “He’s sending a sign. He wants something.”

  “Yeah,” Jonas said. “I think he wants me.”

  “Maybe.” Difranco’s eyes darted back and forth.

  Jonas thumbed his BlackBerry and dialed Anne. She didn’t answer so he left a message.

  “It’s me,” he said. “Rudiger’s here. I saw him in the hotel. Call me as soon as you can.”

  Difranco snapped her attention to him. “Who did you call?”

  “Anne Deneuve. She’s working with you guys.”

  Difranco nodded. “She’s offsite. She’ll be coming here quick.”

  They watched as more security guards covered all areas of the lobby. Anyone leaving the hotel was asked to show I.D. No one was being let in.

  “You think you can find him in here?” Jonas asked.

  She scanned the crowd as she spoke. “Eleven hundred rooms in this place. He could have registered under an infinite number of names. He had enough time to get to the parking garage before we knew you’d seen him, or he could be hiding in a different guest room and it’ll take hours to canvas the building.” She responded to a radio call with an affirmation that Jonas was with her and was assisting in canvas detail at his own request. When she finished, she hooked the radio back on her hip and turned to him.

  “There’s no way in hell we’re finding him in here.”

  40

  IT DIDN’T take long for the first news station to catch wind of what was happening. News cameras weren’t the only form of technology present at the scene. A local Fox affiliate crew also had a parabolic microphone in use, a device used to pick up sounds from hundreds of feet away. A boom operator reacted quickly during the confusion, training the microphone on the epicenter of the commotion, which was Jonas.

  It wasn’t long before the name Rudiger was mentioned.

  • • •

  Jonas looked down at his BlackBerry, the third time in a minute. Still no word from Anne, though he had called her twice and texted her once. It wasn’t unusual—her personal phone was probably off and she was likely hurling herself headfirst into the recent Rudiger development. He wasn’t exactly sure how the Feds would use her, but knowing Rudiger was in the vicinity would play well into her abilities.

  She had sensed it, Jonas thought. She knew he was close, and she thinks he’s here for me. She was right about the first thing. I wonder if she’ll be right about the second.

  It had taken only an hour and a half for the hotel to receive an all-clear, significantly less time than Agent Difranco had guessed. There was no sign of Rudiger anywhere, and although every news channel carried sensationalist lead-ins (Terror in Denver? CNN wondered), no one at the actual Accords seemed to notice or care about the recent developments. The delegations came back to the Hyatt shortly after receiving assurances there was no threat from the suspect. Neither the Israelis nor the Palestinians cared about one crazy man on the loose. They were used to playing their odds with safety all the time, and this Rudiger Sonman seemed like a small threat.

  “Would you stop looking at that thing?”

  The Senator peered over Jonas’s shoulder at the BlackBerry. They were seated next to one another at a round lunch table in the grand ballroom at the Hyatt, picking their way through light Mediterranean fare. The conversation around them was cordial but otherwise hushed.

  “Sorry. Just trying to get hold of Anne,” Jonas said. “You hoping she’s going to tell you what’s going on?” Jonas thought about it. He actually didn’t know why he felt he had to speak to her. He just wanted to. “Maybe,” was the best he could offer the Senator.

  Eli Chazon sat to Jonas’s immediate left. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned over toward Jonas.

  “It is my understanding that you are the one who spotted this...this person.”

  Jonas felt his guard go up. Everyone looked at him.

  “I was,” Jonas said after a moment. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was someone else.”

  Chazon chuckled. “I drank heavily with you last night, Jonas, and that makes us friends.” His accent was thick and his English perfect. “I feel I know you now, and one thing you are not is over-reactive. You are not the type. If you say you saw this man, you saw him.”

  This pro
mpted the Israeli Ambassador to the United States to speak up. “What does this man want? Or, should I say, who does he want?”

  The Senator barged in. “Let me assure you this man poses no threat to anyone here, and I’m sorry for the annoyance this incident caused.”

  “Oh, Senator Sidams, I quite understand that, and I believe no one here feels in danger.” The eight other people around the table all offered nods of agreement. “I am merely curious about Mr. Osbourne’s opinion. I understand he has a connection to the criminal.”

  A woman next to the Ambassador—his aide, Jonas remembered—opened her eyes a fraction wider at the statement.

  “What kind of connection?”

  Jonas heard the Senator softly groan.

  “I don’t really have a connection,” Jonas said.

  The Senator gave him a look that was unmistakable. Shut the fuck up.

  The Israeli Ambassador cleared his throat. “I understand you served together in the Army, and he almost killed you.” Shit, Jonas thought. How does he know that? He looked over again at his boss, who had barely restrained anger on his face.

  “Jonas can’t comment on that,” the Senator said. Jonas read his boss’s body language, and it was clear. It was time to change topic.

  But the Israeli Ambassador was too fast. “I have to tell you,” he told the table. “I have been following this case in the news. It is fascinating. American serial killers far outnumber those of any other nation. Did you know that?”

  No one seemed surprised.

  “This man. This Rudiger.” The name snaked from his mouth. “He was in my country. He reportedly had an incident at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. He was admitted for psychiatric treatment in Jerusalem.”

  Jonas looked down at the table. He could feel the Senator wishing for the whole conversation to drop. Jonas wished for nothing more than to be anywhere but where he was.