Heirs of Cain

by Tom Wallace

  Waltz shook his head. “Not yet. But the way those bastards in Washington like to talk, it’s only a matter of time before I do.”

  “Time is the one thing we don’t have.”

  “Listen, Cain. I—”

  “What?”

  “I’m honored you came to me, and you know I’ll do whatever you want. But—”

  “But what?”

  “Look, a guy with your reputation, your connections—you could get this information in five minutes. From a dozen different sources. Why do you need me?”

  “Because I trust you. And right now trust is as important as speed.”

  Waltz nodded. “I’ll go to D.C. tomorrow. Dig around there. Shouldn’t take me long.”

  “You have my number, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Cain forced himself out of the chair, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands, then slowly walked to the door. He looked at Waltz, a thin smile on his face. “This is a shitty business we’re in, Houdini. There’s something evil about it.”

  “Evil has been with us from the beginning.”

  “Not like this.”

  Waltz put his hand on Cain’s shoulder. “Get some rest, my friend. You look like you haven’t slept in decades.”

  Cain opened the door. “I don’t know, Houdini. Maybe I’ve been asleep too long.”

  Unable to sleep, Cain prowled his hotel room like an angry, agitated tiger. He felt trapped, caged. Morning had arrived, yet there was still no word from Nichols. These were the times Cain hated most—being at the mercy of others. He thrived on action, calling the shots, setting his own agenda.

  Waiting. Relying on help from outside sources, whose talent and skill levels varied, turned him into a madman. I travel best when I travel alone. That had always been his way of operating.

  At six, he ordered up breakfast from room service. He was famished, yet he ate nothing. He was too wired to sleep or eat. At eight, he looked down from his tenth floor window onto the Manhattan streets. Already the streets were alive with joggers, dog walkers, and Sunday morning churchgoers on a pilgrimage to find God. Lucky them, he thought. Finding God was easier than finding Seneca.

  He circled the room, waited, looked at the clock. Started pacing again, stopped. Frustration ate at his insides. Time seemed to stand still.

  At 11:58 the phone rang.

  “Yes.”

  “Major, I have something for you.” It was Nichols. “Sorry it took so long, but I had to do an end-around to avoid questions. The FBI. Nosy bastards.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Simon called two numbers in Chicago. One to a blues joint called Butterfield’s. The other to a woman named Trish Underwood. He called both numbers twice.”

  “What about New York?”

  “Now, that’s a little more interesting. Simon called two numbers there as well. One was to an apartment belonging to George Armstrong. The second to a Dr. Nastasia Ivanovna.”

  “The professor of Russian literature?”

  “One and the same,” Nichols said. “Are you familiar with her?”

  “I heard her give a lecture once. Must have been twelve, fifteen years ago. If my memory is correct, she was teaching in Berlin at the time.”

  “Very good, Major. She was living in Berlin then. Prior to that, she taught at the University in Moscow. For the past seven years, she’s been at Columbia University.”

  “Simon Buckman called her? You’re positive of that?”

  “Yes. And get this. He called her five times.” Nichols paused. “What do you make of that?”

  “Well, it’s for sure Simon wasn’t discussing Tolstoy with her.”

  “I’ve already begun a background check on her. I should have some concrete information for you later this afternoon.”

  “Quash your investigation of Ivanovna, General.”

  “You sure?”

  “Right now she may be our best hope of locating Seneca. If either of them gets even the slightest hint of our presence, Seneca will go so deep underground we’ll never find him. I don’t want to run that risk.”

  “As you wish, Major.”

  “Does anyone in intelligence know you checked Simon Buckman’s phone records?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Anyone at the Pentagon?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ve done a helluva job, General.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Nichols’ eyes were filled with tears when he hung up the phone.

  At first glance Mariah’s appeared to be empty. No customers, no one tending bar, no waitresses. The only person Seneca saw upon entering was the janitor, a small black man with stooped shoulders, watery yellow eyes, and a crown of snow white hair. The old-timer glanced up indifferently at Seneca, then continued mopping the floor.

  It wasn’t until Seneca heard music coming from behind him that he realized the janitor wasn’t alone. He turned and saw a petite brunette sitting at the piano. Her brown eyes stared straight ahead, trancelike, as her long fingers played a slow and melancholy song.

  Seneca listened to the music for nearly a minute before approaching her. When she saw him coming toward her, she stopped playing briefly, then began again.

  “We don’t open until four,” she said. Her voice was soft, completely without emotion. “If you want a drink, try Butterfield’s around the corner. It’s open.”

  “I’m not here for a drink,” Seneca said.

  “Then what are you here for?”

  “I’m trying to find a guy who hangs around this neighborhood. Perhaps you might know him.”

  “It’s a big neighborhood.”

  Seneca pulled up a chair and sat down. “Maybe you know him; maybe you don’t. All I can do is ask.”

  “Then ask.”

  “Derek Jefferson. You may know him as Deke.”

  Seneca knew by her reaction that he’d struck gold. She turned away, eyes quickly filling with tears.

  He leaned forward. “You know him, don’t you?”

  She stopped playing and wiped the tears from her cheeks. After a few seconds, she removed a tissue from her purse and blew her nose.

  “Deke … where is he?” Seneca asked. He started to say something else, then paused. “You’re Trish, aren’t you?”

  She turned away without answering.

  “Deke used to talk about you all the time. ‘My little songbird,’ he’d say. You … you’re Trish, right?”

  She nodded and whispered, “I’m Trish. And you are?”

  “Seneca.”

  “The Indian. Derek’s hero. He talked about you all the time.”

  “Where is Deke?” Seneca asked. “I need to find him, fast.”

  She laughed softly. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Look, little lady. I just hit town. I don’t know anything. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Derek is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  She nodded, more tears running down her face. “I’m sorry, but it’s difficult for me to talk about Derek. I mean, I loved him. Love him.”

  “How did he die? When?”

  “A week or so ago. He was beaten to death.”

  “The cops find his killer?”

  “Are you kidding? They’ll never find Derek’s killer. They won’t because they don’t give a damn. To them he’s just one less black man they have to worry about.”

  “You have any idea who might have done it?”

  “I’m sure Derek had his share of enemies.”

  “Any particular enemy who might’ve had an extrastrong reason for killing him?”

  “Not really. But—”

  “What?”

  “There was a man who came around asking questions about Derek on the day he was murdered. I find that to be a curious coincidence.”

  “You mention this to the cops?”

  “They never asked.”

&nb
sp; “This man—you get a name?”

  Trish blew her nose again, wadded the tissue, and dropped it into a wastebasket. “He told me his name, but I wasn’t really paying attention. I’m terribly sorry. I’ve tried like hell to remember, but I can’t.”

  “Describe him.”

  “White. Brown hair, rather on the longish side. He was probably a couple of inches taller than you. Close to your age, I’d guess. Ruggedly handsome.”

  “Did he say why he was looking for Deke?”

  “Not really. Only that they were Army buddies and he needed to find Derek. That’s about it.”

  “Tell me exactly how Deke was killed. You said he was beaten to death. Beaten with what? Baseball bat, fists, a club?”

  “I don’t know all the details. But from what I’ve heard, he was just beaten. You know, someone used his hands to beat Derek to death.”

  “Take a helluva man to kill Deke using only his hands. This man you spoke with—did he look like he could handle someone as big and powerful as Deke?”

  “I don’t recall anything particularly noteworthy about his physical appearance. He certainly wasn’t the pumped-up bodybuilder type. He was in good shape. Like you.” She paused, eyes narrowing. “But he did have these incredible hands.”

  “What about his hands?”

  “They were exceptionally large. Very strong looking. Almost to the point of being intimidating.”

  Seneca stood. “Was his name Cain?”

  “Cain? No, it wasn’t Cain.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Yes, quite positive.”

  “Michael?”

  “No, not Michael. But that does sound similar.”

  “Mickey?”

  “Yes, that’s it. His name was Mickey … Mickey Collins.”

  Seneca streaked for the door.

  The desk clerk waved when he saw Cain walk through the front lobby.

  “A gentleman phoned for you about twenty minutes ago,” the clerk said. “He didn’t give a name, but he did leave this message.”

  Cain thanked the clerk, took the note, and moved away several paces before reading it.

  Rico‘s. 7 p.m. Urgent.

  Houdini

  Cain looked at the clock above the front desk: 6:32. Rico’s was on Mulberry Street in Little Italy. He could make it by seven if he hurried.

  At two minutes past seven, he walked into Rico’s and was met by a heavy-set, smiling, middle-aged woman—a dead ringer for the old Italian actress Anna Magnani. She asked in halting English if he had a reservation.

  “I’m here to meet Andy Waltz,” Cain replied. “Chances are he’s already here.”

  “You’re Mr. Collins, correct?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Please follow me.”

  She led Cain through the main dining area and into a smaller section off to the right. This section, which was separated from the main hall by a beaded curtain, had two tables and three booths lining the brick wall. A waitress nodded and smiled when they entered the smaller area.

  Andy Waltz sat alone in the booth farthest from the curtain, sipping a glass of red wine. He waved when he saw Cain.

  “Three past seven. Not bad.” He lifted his glass. “Care for some vino? Merlot. Quite tasty.”

  “I’ll pass,” Cain said, sliding into the booth.

  “Don’t dismiss it so soon,” Waltz said. “When you hear what I have to say, you might change your mind. Might even want something stronger than Merlot.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “Oh, we left ominous behind in the starting gate.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “My source at the State Department tells me the prez is going to sit down with—are you ready for this?—the Israeli prime minister, the Palestinian president, and one of Hamas’s top honchos. A one-day meet, super top secret. Has to do with a deal involving Gaza, the West Bank, and an exchange of prisoners.”

  “Hamas? Here? In the states? Almost impossible to believe.”

  “Almost? It’s fuckin’ unbelievable.”

  Cain plucked a breadstick from the basket and tapped it against his hand. “That’s it. That’s perfect for Seneca. Big, highly visible, difficult odds for success. Exactly what he likes.”

  “Who do you think gave him the green light?” Waltz asked.

  “With that cast of characters, take your pick. It could be one of a dozen or more factions. I doubt if Seneca knows who’s signing his paycheck.”

  “Boychick, let me hit you with a bit more bad news. The meeting is this Saturday.”

  “Saturday? You’re positive?”

  “As sure as I’m a Hebrew.”

  “What else are you sure of?”

  “Saturday. That’s about all I know for sure.”

  “Where?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “A meeting that big. How can you not know the location?”

  “Nobody seems to know much, and those who do aren’t talking.”

  “Doesn’t matter where it is. We have to see that it’s called off.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

  “Why?”

  Waltz shrugged his shoulders. “My State Department guy says this deal is so hush-hush you wouldn’t believe it. Says there aren’t five people on Capitol Hill who know it’s happening. Even the prez’s closest advisers are under the assumption that he’s checking into Walter Reed on Thursday for minor surgery. The lid on this one is tight as hell.”

  “It’s not that fuckin’ tight. Seneca knows about it. Whoever hired him knows about it. Your State Department pal knows about it. I’d say this tight-as-hell lid has sprung a few leaks.”

  “Okay, point taken. I’ll talk to my guy again, see if he can fill in some blanks.”

  “Work him hard,” Cain said. “While you’re at it, find out how much security is planned for the meeting, wherever the hell it is.”

  “Jesus Christ, anything else? Like what’s on the menu, maybe?”

  “Just get what you can as fast as you can.”

  “What about you? Where do you go from here?”

  Cain shook his head. “I have a couple of ideas brewing, but whether or not I have enough time to implement them is a big question mark. Four days—that’s short notice. And until we know the exact time and location, my options are somewhat limited.”

  “What about Lucas? If anyone can pull a few strings, get the meeting called off or postponed, it’s him.”

  “Yeah, he may be our best shot.”

  “You can’t go wrong with that wily old bastard on your side.” Waltz chuckled. “Lucas calling the shots, you doing the headhunting, me scrounging—man, this is just like the old days.”

  “Somehow the old days seemed easier.” Cain paused, a faraway look in his eyes. “And awfully long ago.”

  Lucas White lived alone in a two-story white wooden house in Falls Church, Virginia. He was immensely proud of the house, the only one he’d ever owned. The house, which sat on a quiet, secluded corner across from the city park, had been built prior to the Civil War by a Virginia senator named Richard Wingate, and had remained in the Wingate family until 1988, when Lucas bought it two months prior to retiring from the Army.

  A lifelong bachelor—who needs a bride when you have the Army as your mistress?—Lucas enlisted the wife of a former staff aide to help with the interior decorating. Under his watchful eye, and with enormous amounts of his money, she transformed the place into a miniature Southern mansion and a small but impressive museum to his long and rewarding military career. It was a house with character, taste, and history.

  The den was Lucas’s favorite room. His favorite place in the world, really. It was small, cozy, intimate, the perfect place to spend hours reading, thinking, and listening to his beloved Mozart. This was his retreat, his safe haven.

  That is, until this latest piece of business shattered his life of tranquility.

  Lucas downed two large glasses of Scotch and water i
n rapid succession, then poured a refill. He drank not so much to get drunk as to remember. He wanted the alcohol to guide his thoughts back into the past.

  Nostalgia was the tonic he used to fight off depression and melancholy. A moment of agony today could best be soothed by recalling a moment of glory from yesterday. An empty hole in his life at the present could best be filled by chiseling out a piece of the past.

  His glorious past.

  No matter what happened, regardless of what anyone said or did, they could never take away his past.

  Tears came to his eyes as he gazed around the den. He fought against them, but it was a losing battle. They dripped from his eyes to his chin to the floor.

  He brushed the tears away, downed another shot of Scotch, and thought about his past. His history was in this room, on these walls. His life. What it told him was this: he had been a good soldier, perhaps even a great one.

  They could never take that history away from him.

  Not the pistol given to him by Churchill, the Japanese sword of surrender by his old colleague Doug MacArthur, or the set of golf clubs by Ike.

  Lucas felt the Scotch take hold, drawing him deeper into a past that could never be stolen from him. He was now a traveler in his own land of memories, a land he cherished, a land growing more distant with each passing hour.

  He took another drink, felt the fire roaring inside him, and let his eyes scan the room.

  On the wall to his left were twenty-seven framed correspondences, personal letters, and memos addressed to him—four-star General Lucas K. White, by God, a fuckin’ soldier’s soldier—and no one could take that away, ever, and fuck ‘em if they tried.

  That bottom row of letters said it all: praise and congratulations and appreciation from seven presidents. They knew. They understood how great a warrior he had been. They appreciated what he had done for his country. How could anyone dare to doubt or question his contributions? His patriotism or his service to America’s many causes? His absolute belief in duty, honor, country?

  No one could doubt it—ever.

  No matter what happened.

  Then there were the photographs. Eighty-nine in all, covering virtually every inch of three walls. A pictorial history of General Lucas White’s life, from his childhood through retirement. It was all there, for everyone to see, a man’s life on full display. Snapshots taken in dozens of hot spots around the globe, during times of war, during times of peace, him with high-ranking officers and lowly enlisted grunts, all with one thing in common—respect for him, for what he’d done while in uniform. They knew. His men knew.