Heirs of Cain

by Tom Wallace

“But with my experience, I should be more aware.” Daniel Cohen shook his head. “However, that is another matter and not your concern, is it? Now, young man, how can I be of help?”

  George Armstrong pointed toward the main house. “My only concern is the room where the meeting is to take place. That’s my sole responsibility. I’ll give the room a preliminary going-over today and a more thorough one tomorrow. On Wednesday, when the rest of the security detachment arrives, the entire estate will be covered. Every inch of this estate will be inspected.”

  “Right this way.” Daniel spun on his heels and began marching toward the house.

  Daniel Cohen led George Armstrong into the main house, down the front hall, and into the library. Once inside he switched on the light, waved his arm in a grand gesture, and said, “There are more than two thousand books in here, many of which are quite rare. As you can imagine, I’m immensely proud of this collection.”

  George Armstrong’s eyes traveled slowly around the room, photographing images, burning them into his memory bank. The bookshelves, which rose from floor to ceiling, covered three walls. Directly ahead, at the entrance to the room, was a large window that opened to the Atlantic Ocean. In the middle of the room was a long oak table surrounded by eight chairs.

  “An impressive room,” he said. “But not a good choice from a security standpoint.”

  “Why not?” Daniel Cohen asked.

  “Too much exposure to the outside.” George Armstrong pointed to the window. “Easy access for an outside attack.”

  “It’s my understanding that several helicopters will be in use while the meeting is in process.”

  “There are good helicopters, and there are bad helicopters, if you know what I mean. An open window like this makes sitting ducks of everyone inside.”

  “Can anything be done?”

  “We’ll simply have to be extra alert; that’s all. And, hopefully, the meeting won’t last too long.”

  Daniel Cohen’s face brightened. “I’ve been informed that if all goes well, the meeting will last less than two hours. The negotiations have been ongoing for many months, so all that remains is for the papers to be signed.”

  “How did you earn the honor of hosting such an event?”

  “The Israeli prime minister and I are old friends,” Daniel said, smiling. “We fought together in two wars. Having the meeting here was his idea. I was only too happy to oblige.”

  “Do you mind telling me the purpose of this meeting?”

  “Peace, God willing. An end to the senseless killing. An exchange of prisoners.”

  George Armstrong barely heard Daniel Cohen’s words. His eyes were on one of the bookshelves, which he now realized was lined not with books but with movies. Hundreds of them. He counted the rows. There were ten. Each row was lined with at least fifty movies, all encased in identical dark brown plastic jackets.

  George Armstrong turned, smiling. “You must like movies.”

  “I’m the world’s number one movie buff,” Daniel proudly proclaimed. “They’re my absolute passion. I spend hours each day watching them. In my humble opinion, the VCR is the single greatest invention in the history of mankind. My only regret is that I didn’t invent it.”

  “All of these are yours?”

  “Bought ‘em all. That way I don’t have to bother taping them off the TV, with all those dreadful commercials.”

  “Very impressive,” George Armstrong said, turning toward the door. “Well, I should be on my way.”

  “Have you seen everything you need to see? I’ll be more than happy to give you the complete tour.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I know exactly what needs to be done.”

  The two men walked out into the sunlight. Neither man spoke until they were at George Armstrong’s car.

  “I would imagine a man of your experience can glance at a particular location and see a hundred danger zones,” Daniel said. “You probably saw things the rest of us wouldn’t see in a million years.”

  George Armstrong opened his car door and slid into the front seat. He put on his sunglasses, looked up at Daniel Cohen, and smiled.

  “Know what’s scary?” he said.

  “What?”

  “A good assassin only needs one danger zone.”

  “Camp David is the meeting site.” Cain pressed the phone close to his ear. “At least, that’s the message I got.”

  “Is that so?” Andy Waltz asked. “And where exactly did you come up with this bit of information?”

  “A note found on Simon Buckman.” Cain sipped water from a glass. “Wasn’t found until they got him to the morgue. We got lucky.”

  “Think so? Boychick, let me clue you to something. You need to find yourself better sources.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The location has been changed. It’s not going to take place at Camp David. Either Simon got it wrong or he was purposefully misinformed. No way I can know that. What I can tell you for certain is that it ain’t happening at Camp David.”

  Cain set the empty glass on the table. “Okay, so enlighten me. Where is it taking place?”

  “A private estate on Long Island.”

  “Whose estate?”

  “Daniel Cohen’s,” Waltz said.

  “You trust your source?”

  “Pentagon guy, four stars. He’s gold.”

  “Why the change? Why this Cohen guy’s place?”

  “Only guessing, but probably for security purposes. Or to better elude the press.” Waltz waited several beats, then said, “Are you ready for the really bad news?”

  “What?”

  “July twenty-eight, not the thirtieth.”

  “Ah, shit.”

  “Still consider yourself lucky?”

  “What do you know about Daniel Cohen?” Cain asked.

  “Owns a chain of clothing stores and about half of Brooklyn. Has more money than Bill Gates.”

  “What’s his story?”

  “Don’t know much, except that he’s clean. My hunch is he’s one of those Jews who has finally grown tired of the bloodshed in the Middle East and wants to do something about it. Could be he thinks he’s the Messiah. Or maybe he’s meshugge. Who knows? Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I want to know everything about this Cohen guy’s estate. I need a map, layout of the house, architect’s rendering, aerial photos, anything that might be beneficial. And I need it by tonight.”

  “You’ll have it,” Waltz said.

  Seneca was ten minutes outside of Manhattan when his cell phone went off.

  “Yes?” He immediately recognized the caller’s voice. “Karl? Why this call?”

  “To warn you to stay away from Ivanovna’s place.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “How?”

  “Cyanide.”

  There was almost a minute of silence before Seneca finally said, “She wouldn’t have gone out like that unless she knew she was going to be tortured. Did—?”

  “She had a visitor. A man. He came down a few minutes after arriving, said no one answered the door. The manager checked, found her dead.”

  “This man—did he give his name?”

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I know who he is.”

  Cain opened the large brown envelope and pulled out the picture. Attached to the front was a note that said,

  Hope this helps. It’s not much, but it’s the best I could do on short notice.

  Houdini

  The 8×10 picture was an aerial view of the Cohen estate. At the center of the estate, on the left side of a circular driveway, was the main house. To the north there was a black-bottom swimming pool and a putting green. Approximately thirty yards from the pool were two tennis courts. Another twenty yards or so from the tennis courts was a smaller visitor’s cottage. The beach house was nearest to the ocean and separated from the main house by a clump of trees.

  Of particular interest to Cain was
the snakelike brick wall curling from the top of the picture to the bottom. What caught his attention was a part of the wall on the east side between the beach house and the ocean that had been badly damaged by years of wind and water. A section had crumbled, leaving a gap large enough for a man to climb through.

  That would be his point of entry.

  Luck. Take it when it comes your way.

  He put the picture down, picked up a towel, wrapped it around his eyes, and tied it tightly in the back. Reaching out with his right hand, he switched off the light. He wanted darkness.

  Total darkness.

  The unyielding darkness a blind man knows.

  For it was in absolute darkness, in the strange black world where the ability to move within shadows separated him from all others, that he could find that muddy river again. Where he could hear the voices of men afraid to speak, yet unable to remain silent.

  Men awed by the wonder of what they had just witnessed.

  By what the great Cain had done.

  He sat still in the darkness, feeling his heart beat, and listened.

  They were nearing now, closing in on his shadow world, eyes wide and fearful and disbelieving.

  He listened.

  And listened.

  “Jesus God, did you see that?”

  “Yeah, I saw.”

  “The look. Did you see the look in his eyes?”

  “I saw, I saw. The little dink bastard never knew what was happening.”

  “No, not him, not the dink. The captain. Did you see his eyes while he was wasting the little motherfucker?”

  “No, I wasn’t watching his eyes.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like that before. Scary. Really scary. And cold, like a cobra or something. Like a hungry animal. I’m tellin’ you, it was spooky.”

  “Forget his eyes, man. Did you see that dink’s head tumble into the river? It hit the water so hard it bounced.”

  “Look at the captain now. “

  “Yeah, he’s out there, man. Out there in that killer’s zone.”

  “First kill, sir?”

  “Forget it, man, he’s too far out there to hear you.”

  “First kill, sir?”

  “I’m tellin’ you to forget it. He’s not hearing you.”

  “First kill, sir?”

  An hour later, Cain loosened the towel and let it fall into his lap. Slowly, he stood, eyes still closed, and walked into the bathroom. Without hesitation, he switched on the light.

  And didn’t blink.

  With the flick of a switch, he had gone from absolute darkness to glaring brightness, yet he had not so much as blinked. Others would have. Others would have shielded their faces, covered their eyes, been forced by the abrupt change to wait until their eyes made the adjustment.

  But he was Cain, and for him the darkness, that shadowy world where he thrived, contained more light than a hundred suns.

  He stared at his reflection in the mirror. At his eyes. They were steel gray.

  He switched off the light and stood once again in the familiar darkness.

  Seneca was close.

  So was blood time.

  Cain smiled.

  He was ready.

  Carrying two large paper sacks, one under each arm, Seneca entered the tiny apartment. He moved swiftly to the kitchen, setting the cumbersome bags on a small wooden table. He went back to the door, checking to make sure it was locked. After filling a glass with water and drinking it, he turned on the kitchen light, took off his shirt, yanked a chair away from the table, and sat down.

  Now ready to prepare his surprise, he picked up the heavier of the two sacks, then dumped its contents onto the table. Five movies purchased from a Blockbuster on 42nd Street. He quickly opened the large protective jackets, removed the cassettes, and tossed them into a trash can. Taking a ruler, he measured one of the five identical jackets: nine and a half inches by six and a half inches by one and a half inches.

  Absolutely perfect for what he had in mind.

  Next, he emptied the second sack. It contained a common size D battery, a wristwatch, and a smaller sack filled with ball bearings and nails.

  The other two items, the ones at the heart of his plan, he already had: the plastic explosive Composition C-4 and a blasting cap.

  He took a block of the light brown puttylike C-4 and began molding it into one of the movie cassette jackets. When the jacket was half full, he took ten ball bearings and three razor blades, carefully placing them into the smoothed-down layer of C-4. Still not completely satisfied, he grabbed his empty glass and went to the sink. Using a hammer, he tapped the glass until it shattered. He sifted out the five largest slivers and placed them on top of the plastic. Satisfied with this added touch, he filled the remainder of the jacket with C-4 and closed it.

  Following the same routine, he filled three more jackets. In one he used several large nails rather than glass. In another he used the rusty tips taken from some darts he found in one of the kitchen drawers. Variation always made things more interesting.

  When the four jackets met his approval, he took a cloth and carefully wiped them clean. He picked them up, two in each hand, and lined them against the wall. Time now for a memory check.

  He looked at the four white identifying labels on the edge of each jacket, then without hesitation arranged them in the proper order, from left to right.

  All About Eve, Anatomy of a Murder, Animal House, Annie Hall.

  Reaching into his pants pocket he took out a small piece of paper and read the words he had written on it. His memory had served him well. The movies were in the same order as the ones in Daniel Cohen’s library. Third row, numbers thirteen through sixteen.

  Head-high and close to those seated at the table.

  He couldn’t have asked for more.

  Except to be there when it happened.

  That’s why explosives weren’t his preferred method of killing. Too distant, too impersonal. Also, the risk of failure was too high, although at this close range that wasn’t likely. Unlike Arlington, where too much distance separated the bomb from the victims. Where a lucky bitch just happened to be in the walk-in freezer when the blast went off.

  No, given the choice, he would be in the room, Uzi in one hand, knife in the other, waiting for the distinguished guests to arrive. That way there would be no risk of failure. They would die, up close, looking him squarely in the eye. Exactly the way he liked it.

  He opened the fifth jacket, the one appropriately marked Apocalypse Now, and filled it half full with C-4. Taking the battery, he taped it to the left side of the top half. On the right side he taped the wristwatch, which had been pre-set for 10:30 a.m. on Thursday, July 28. All that remained was to place the blasting cap securely into the C-4, then run the small piece of wire from the watch to the battery to the blasting cap.

  When he finished, he closed the jacket, cleaned it with the rag, and placed it in its proper place. To the right. Number seventeen.

  He then took a piece of thin wire and twice wrapped it around the five movie jackets, binding them together. This procedure troubled him—none of Cohen’s movies were bound into groups—but he had no other choice. The five jackets needed to be secured in order to ensure detonation and to provide maximum killing effect.

  He stood, backed away, and looked at the containers lined against the wall. From a distance of less than five feet, the thin black wire was virtually invisible. For the wire to be seen, someone would have to be looking for it.

  No one would be.

  Seneca arrived at the Cohen estate a few minutes before 7:00 a.m. He parked at the end of the street and observed the area around the front gate. After fifteen minutes, he concluded that no military personnel were present. Confident the area was safe, he drove Dr. Ivanovna’s Honda Civic past the vacant guard shack and onto the estate grounds.

  Daniel Cohen and a slender white-haired woman emerged from the main house and walked toward the tennis courts. He carried two rackets under h
is left arm and a Prince tennis bag in his right hand. He grinned and waved when he saw Seneca approaching.

  “I was wondering when you’d be back,” Daniel said, putting the bag down. He turned to the woman and put his hand on her shoulder. “Honey, this is the fella I was telling you about. He’s just about the most observant man I’ve ever met.”

  She smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Anna Cohen, Daniel’s wife. It’s a pleasure to meet you. It seems you made quite an impression on my husband. Believe me, Daniel isn’t easily impressed. However, the impression you made wasn’t sufficient enough for him to remember your name.”

  “George Armstrong.”

  Anna studied him closely. “Do you mind if I ask you your heritage?”

  “American Indian. Cherokee.”

  “An original American. That’s quite a rarity these days. I hope you’re not offended by my inquisitiveness. It’s only that I have a great interest in different nationalities. Probably stems from being Jewish.”

  “I’m not offended.”

  “You are, I’m sure, aware of the great irony attached to your name,” Anna said. “George Armstrong Custer. Not a particular favorite among American Indians, I wouldn’t think.”

  “If every U.S. Army general was like Custer, we’d still have our land,” Seneca said.

  Anna laughed out loud. “Yes, I suppose you would.”

  Daniel Cohen gave his wife a hug. “In case you haven’t guessed, my wife taught American history in high school for thirty years. And like every history teacher I ever knew, she’ll wear you out with boring facts.”

  “Just like I’m gonna wear you out on the tennis court,” Anna said. She smiled at Seneca. “He hasn’t taken a set from me in two years.”

  “I absolutely detest a braggart, don’t you?” Daniel said to Seneca. “Even when what she says is the truth. Young man, you go ahead and do what you have to do. The front door is unlocked. If you need me for anything at all, don’t be afraid to give a yell. The way she roughs me up, chances are I’ll need a break.”

  Seneca waited until the couple was out of sight before opening the car trunk and removing the small leather bag. He opened it quickly, double-checked the contents, and closed it. Inside were five movie jackets and a large knife. Just in case.