The Wallis Jones Series Box Set - Volume Two: Books Four thru Six

by Martha Carr

  “Where are you going?” he demanded. “What makes you think they turned?”

  “They would have turned several times by now and may even have doubled back. We have interfered with their plans, and if Norman saw the same van in the park, they are already working from a contingency plan. We won’t catch them if we try to figure out where they are driving. They will be trying to get out of Richmond as quickly as possible and probably not by car. That’s too easy to spot and takes too long to get anywhere.”

  “An airport,” said Father Donald. “There are too many to guess. A few county ones,” he said, hurriedly trying to recall the ones controlled by Management. “New Kent or Chesterfield, that has to be it. That one can handle small executive jets.”

  “Heavily controlled by Management. They wouldn’t choose that one.”

  “What the hell. Who do you think took Norman if it wasn’t Management?” asked Father Donald, wiping the blood still dripping from his nose onto his black clerical shirt, leaving a sheen. “The private ones, what are those? Sabot Airport if you head west outside of the city toward Charlottesville. There’s Mayers Airport in Ashland heading north, and Christian's Airport in Mechanicsville.”

  “The devil’s spawn took Norman. George Clemente. We have a mole in his inner circle,” said Esther, taking a hard left onto Patterson Avenue, heading away from the suburbs and the city.

  “What could he want with Norman Weiskopf? He can’t be leverage for either side,” said Father Donald trying to piece together the puzzle. “You’re going toward Ashland. Mayers Airport? They only allow prop planes.”

  “Easier to get away without filing a flight plan and fewer people around to notice you were ever there. You can move much faster. Will take them a little longer to get to their destination but faster than a car, and largely undetected.”

  “Why George Clemente?” asked Father Donald, wiping his nose again. The buildings along Patterson Avenue gave way to lines of trees as they passed out of Henrico County and into Hanover County.

  “Take these,” said Esther, pulling a tissue out of her sleeve. “Push it against the top of your gums and lean your head back. You won’t be any good to me if you pass out.”

  Father Donald pressed the tissue against his gums but sat up straight, scanning the road. Esther put out her arm, gently pushing him back.

  “We’re not going to see them. It’s okay, lean back. We have to hope we picked the right airport. George Clemente because he hasn’t given up on anything. He’s the cockroach after the nuclear meltdown. He got up and started organizing all over again with rogue Watchers who thought Management gave up a little too easily.”

  “But why Norman?” Father Donald tilted his head, still trying to watch out the side window.

  “He’s leverage for a certain family that lies at the center of this whole thing. We should have guessed that this would happen. Now, I understand the short message we received. The negotiations are only a distraction. Frankly, I thought for sure they were after Wallis. Norman is the surprise. We have been keeping more of a sharp eye on Wallis.”

  The airport was a low hangar at the end of one long, thin runway nestled in an open field surrounded by tall pines that stretched out in every direction, ending in plowed-over fields for the winter. Esther knew as soon as they pulled onto the runway, still driving seventy miles an hour, as fast as the old Crown Victoria would let her, that they had chosen the wrong site. There was no activity.

  “We’ve lost him,” said Father Donald, sagging back into the seat.

  Esther dug her nails into the steering wheel. “Not yet,” she said, an edge to her voice. “They will want him alive, for now. This was a lot of trouble. Too much trouble for a dead body. We have to get to Wallis before they do. Call her and tell her we’re on the way but that’s it. We can’t take the chance that she will try something on her own.”

  “What could Clemente want with Wallis?” said Father Donald, quietly, tears running through the blood smeared on his face.

  “He is trying to create a third party. That is what our mole believes. If he’s to recruit enough members he will need to somehow debilitate what exists. Perhaps by taking the best members for himself. Norman and Wallis are somehow key.” She looked at Father Donald’s ashen face.

  “There is still much hope, Father,” said Esther, rolling the r’s, falling right back into the part she had played for decades now. At times it was easier. “I may have chosen the wrong airport but all they have is a head start on us here.”

  “Tell me you have an idea of where they’ve taken him,” pleaded Father Donald.

  “More than an idea,” said Esther. “Call Wallis and tell her we are on our way. We need to get to her first.”

  Chapter 8

  The green contingency team was in position waiting just far enough back not to be noticed. The red team had been seen by the target and worse, by someone remotely on the target’s phone. They were pulled from the field.

  The contingency team was immediately put into place and rolled out of the Short Pump Mall’s parking lot following the GPS signal from a distance, keeping at least a mile between themselves and the target, Norman Weiskopf.

  An opportune moment had easily presented itself. Three men sat calmly waiting for the right moment, ready to do what they had been practicing for well over a month.

  Once the team leader saw their target walking in the open in a relatively secluded area by the church with only the minister and a bat to stop them, he gave the signal to move.

  “Roll One,” he said, quickly accelerating, coming over the crest of the hill in a straight line, across the small islands of grass.

  Each of the men were known by the team color and their position on the team. No names were ever used, no backgrounds exchanged and no casual chitchat for the entire length of their training. Once their part of the mission was completed they would be separated and sent to different cities and take on new roles in George Clemente’s expanding organization. Never to meet again.

  The leader liked it that way. He had been recruited out of high school and had watched his family rise securely into middle class only to see the civil war in the past year threaten everything. George Clemente had the right idea, he thought. Take what’s good about both and end all of the fighting. Do it quick, do it efficiently and do whatever you have to do. No names required.

  “Take position, Two,” he said as Man Two got into a crouch, pulling a syringe out of his pocket.

  “On my mark,” said the leader, grimacing. He was a former soldier from the civil war who had been injured early in the fighting in the Midwest and become disillusioned with how quickly Management folded their tent.

  The van squealed to a halt between Norman Weiskopf and his car, the door easily sliding open as the leader reached out, wrapping his arms around Norman, pulling him off of his feet, and disorienting him.

  Man Two waited for Norman to land hard on the metal floor of the van, even giving a little bounce before he pulled off the cap, let out a little of the ketamine to make sure there were no bubbles and injected the drug into the target’s shoulder. Norman continued to struggle, rolling onto his side and tucking his chin.

  For a moment, the leader admired the evasive skills someone had shown their target. He appreciated preparedness, even in the opposition. It was something to note that the other side was taking precautions. They would need to sweep him for any trackers and keep in mind he may have more of an ability to escape than they realized. He would make a note and pass the information to the next cell.

  They drove down Three Chopt Road toward River Road, just above the speed limit, doubling back on Libbie Avenue. “Stop here,” said Team Leader. “Two, take care of the decal,” he said, as Man Two rolled an unconscious Norman on to his side

  The van pulled over as one man got out with two large decals of ads for a plumbing company, carefully placing one on each side, before getting back in the van and sliding the door shut. He had done it in under 30 second
s, just like they practiced.

  Witnesses who saw the van heading east through Richmond would search their memories to recall if they’d seen a white van and answer, no. Their brain sorted out the vans with decorations or large decals. It was an easy and effective cover.

  They turned right on Cary Street, mixing in with traffic flowing toward the Powhite Parkway, no one giving them a second look. If someone were to call the number on the decal, one of George Clemente’s operatives would have answered, “Earley Plumbing,” and taken down the information, never calling back.

  Thirty minutes later they were at Christians Airport in Mechanicsville, pulling onto the runway alongside the waiting Cessna 182, a four seater prop plane just big enough to hold the team and its cargo and get them to their next destination, New York City, in only an hour and a half.

  “Man Two, how is our guest?” asked the leader.

  “Breathing normally, nonresponsive, blood pressure at a normal rate. We’re good to go.”

  The van was pulled up so that the door opened away from the hangar as the driver got out to walk over to the small, low building to file his flight report. It was necessary to follow procedure as much as possible. Besides, Circle operatives would be looking at all private planes that had taken flight around this time and didn’t come back to their starting point. They would only be able to hide but so much detail in the end. Still, if they figured it out it would take some time before they would realize it was this plane and search for it on radar.

  Man One filed the flight plan to land in Baltimore, smiling at the old man behind the desk. He was wearing a large nametag that said, ‘Lee’.

  “Good day for flying, Lee” he said, “How long you been doing this?” he asked, engaging the older man in conversation, distracting him from what was going on outside. By now, Charlie had been rolled into a large duffel bag and eased out of the van and onto the plane. As soon as the van was moved to the side of the building, Man One would know it was time to go.

  “Okay if we leave the van parked here for a few hours? Not going far. Should be back by dinnertime.”

  “Sure, no problem. We’ll keep an eye on it for you, same as always,” said Lee, smiling, showing smudges of tobacco stain on his front teeth. He looked down at the flight manifesto. “Seen you in here before, Roger,” he said, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans, and holding out his hand to shake. “Used to like to take off with the guys for parts unknown myself, when I was younger. This is getting to be a regular thing. You want a flight following and discrete squawk? I hear there’s some rain between here and Baltimore. Can give you the vectors.”

  “We should be good,” said Man One. He would become the only face Lee remembered from all the times the team had run this drill, arriving at various times, and asking about the van. But Man One would be moved far enough away to an assignment far out of the public eye. It wouldn’t matter in the end.

  Man One smiled and held out his hand, taking note of the yellow stains around the index and middle fingers and the hard calluses on the palms. He made it a practice to observe as much as possible. Never know when some detail would come in handy and become useful information.

  “That’s an R-182 Skylane RG, nice plane,” said Lee, admiringly. “Little more oomph for your money. Favorite of those homeland security types. At least that’s what I hear,” he said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of a CB radio tucked in the corner. “Listen to it at night sometimes. Not a lot going on here, not much to do.”

  Man One heard the sound of gravel crunching and turned to see the van parking just out of view of the large front window. The driver got out and was walking back to the plane. His face was never visible to Lee.

  “Thanks again,” said Man One, turning at the door to wave as he walked past the van and onto the long, thin airstrip. He stepped up into the plane and sat down next to the leader who was already starting the pre-flight check. He glanced back and saw that Norman Weiskopf had been buckled in, sitting up, and was unconscious, his face leaning against the small window.

  “Pull him back,” said Man One, looking toward the small office.

  Leader stopped his check and looked back, and then in the direction Man One was looking. “Pull him back. Put the pillow under his head and strap him in tight. Clear!” he yelled, starting the propeller. The plane taxied down the runway, easily taking flight to 5,500 feet over nearby McMansions cozying up next to each other, alongside plowed-over fields.

  “Wheels are coming up at one p.m,” he said, “and estimated time of arrival to the safe house is six p.m.. Call it in.”

  The flight went just as they had practiced it. Thunderstorms over southern Maryland caused them to take a slightly different course, but all of that had been built into the timeline. Leader maneuvered past it and kept right on going.

  By the time they arrived at the small, private airfield in Somers Point, New Jersey, just along the coast, Norman was stirring. The leader glanced back and Man Two who was pulling out a syringe and pulling off the cap. “This is expected,” he said, calmly, without looking up at anyone in particular.

  The leader transmitted multiple short blips on the common traffic advisory frequency to activate the landing lights on the darkening ground. Man Two held on to Norman who had stopped moving, repositioning him and holding his head against the pillow as they landed with a sharp bounce running down the length of the grassy runway.

  They taxied the plane into its resting place next to all of the smaller planes used to fly the banners over nearby Atlantic City, and waited for the propeller to stop turning before texting the waiting black Lincoln Town Car, the rich man’s taxi in the north. They were so commonplace no one would look up to even try to catch a glimpse of the occupant. The really rich or famous wouldn’t go for something so discreet. Only the wannabes.

  Man One got out first to greet the car while the leader and Man Two carefully slid Norman back into the duffel bag. The ground team had checked the area for anyone wandering too closely but they couldn’t be sure of long-range lenses. Every precaution was taken to give them more time before any of the trail might be taken up by the Circle.

  The second team loaded the duffel bag into the backseat of the car and without exchanging words, got in and drove off, heading for New York City. The first leg of the journey was completed. The contingency team got back onto the Cessna and prepared to take off again and head back to Richmond, Virginia, completing their usual flight. Everything would seem normal to Lee if anyone came to talk to him. There was even a chance he wouldn’t bring them up, thinking they were regular customers. Even so, no one would find them.

  Shortly after arriving in Richmond, Virginia the men took their go-bags out of their houses, shredding the last of their old personal identification, and left for different locations with new identities and no intention of ever returning. Their time in Virginia was done.

  The Lincoln Town Car arrived in the East Village of Manhattan, cruising down Houston Avenue. The street gave Clemente quick access in and out of the city, serving as a wide thoroughfare that ran from east to west across the full width of the island, all the way from FDR Drive and the East River on one side, not far from their destination, over to the Hudson River on the West side. The street also served as an unofficial boundary that all the locals were aware of between the different neighborhoods, marking off the East Village from Alphabet City, NoHo, the trendy Greenwich Village or the West Village flowing out from the north side of the street and the Lower East Side, the Bowery and further downtown, SoHo. The car turned at Avenue B and pulled up on Third Street to a side door of an old red brick three-flat that housed a small dive bar named Sasha’s on the second floor. It was owned by an old Russian woman, Olga Sokolov, who had named the bar after the Russian revolutionary, Vladimir Lenin’s older brother, executed for plotting to overthrow the czar.

  She lived in an apartment on the third floor that was enormous by the usual Manhattan standards. Olga had refused to break up
the space into smaller apartments, not wanting any neighbors nosing in her business or asking pesky questions.

  George Clemente liked the irony and chose it as a secure location, coming in through the basement entrance to the restaurant one door down where deliveries were made. Just below the street level there was another door, connecting the properties. Olga had an arrangement with the owners.

  One of the Watchers got out and knocked on the metal doors lying flush with the ground. A door swung up and open and an old woman’s head appeared. George Clemente got out first, helping to open the other door as the men passed quickly down the steps.

  Olga was at least as old as George Clemente and walked bent over slightly at the middle, looking like she was thinking about picking something up off of the floor. Her clothes were a drab afterthought and hung off her small frame. It was a sharp contrast to her hair that was died a deep maroon and piled in a loose knot on the top of her head, several of the strands hanging down to her shoulders. Charlie saw how she must have been beautiful at some point.

  Her lips twisted into a tight purse and she scanned the group that was pouring into her establishment, and Charlie saw how time and her own choices must have drained any beauty out of her. He wondered if that could still happen to him if he stayed too long.

  “Thank you for the use of the secure location,” said George, as he waited for Olga to unlock the door to the tunnel. It was never left open and locked upon each closing.

  A Watcher quickly closed the large metal doors over their head as the basement fell into darkness. Olga turned on her flashlight, slapping the hand of a nearby Watcher as he momentarily turned on the bright light on his phone.

  “What, do you think I don’t pay the electric bill? You hiring numbskulls now, George?” She pointed a bony finger in the Watcher’s face, quickly scratching the skin right underneath his eye, making him wince, more with surprise. “If I wanted to draw attention I would have turned on the light and thrown all of you a party. Maybe even let you walk in the front door. Idiot,” she hissed, turning back to the lock set high in the door, easily twisting the key.