Heirs of Cain

by Tom Wallace

  A second factor brought on a sense of urgency—the sun. It was beginning to edge its way over the rim of the horizon. In less than fifteen minutes, his cloak of darkness would be completely swallowed up by daylight.

  Cain reminded himself to take out the young soldier as painlessly as possible. A sudden snap of the neck, and it would be over for the young man in a fraction of a second. An unfortunate casualty in a war he played no part in.

  Cain picked several pebbles from the ground, found one he liked, then quietly dropped the others. He smiled. For all his greatness, for all his cunning, he was resorting to the oldest trick in the book—tossing a rock against a wall to draw the opponent’s attention, then moving in for the kill.

  But the soldier got lucky.

  Nature called.

  He looked around, rested his M16 against the house, walked toward the wall, and disappeared into the darkness.

  When Cain heard the unmistakable sound of a man urinating, he dashed toward the back door, turned the knob, and went inside. The downstairs area, where the library was located, was dark and empty. Security, such as it was, consisted of the eight men out back, an equal number at the front, and the helicopter. The main security force wouldn’t begin arriving until an hour or so after sunrise. By then he’d be long gone, provided all went well.

  One look inside the library, and he knew this was where the meeting would be conducted. This conclusion was based on the arrangement of the furniture, the recording equipment, and the lights. There was a long oak table in the middle of the room, eight chairs, four television cameras set to record the occasion. This was the place, all right.

  Which also meant the explosives had to be here.

  He needed light. Without it, finding the bomb quickly would be extremely difficult. But that wasn’t possible. Light would draw the soldiers like fireflies. He played with the idea of opening the curtain covering the big window. But that, too, was a flawed and dangerous notion. Ultimately, he knew, this mission, like so many others, would have to be played out in his dark, shadowy world.

  In a very real sense, it would also be played out in Seneca’s mind. For there, Cain knew, he would find the clues to where the explosives were hidden. He had to think like the Indian, put himself in the Indian’s shoes, become the Indian.

  Cain always felt like he knew his men better than they knew themselves. That included Seneca. Now was the time to prove it. He would enter Seneca’s mind, track his thought process by asking basic questions.

  What explosives were being used?

  Composition C-4. Why C-4?

  It’s a putty-like substance that can be molded to fit any container.

  How many primary targets?

  Four.

  Where would they be located?

  Sitting at the table.

  Which end?

  Judging from the position of the cameras, the end nearest the big window.

  What part of the body is most vulnerable to a mortal wound?

  The head.

  When a man is seated, how far is his head from the floor?

  Approximately four to four and a half feet.

  Cain sat in the chair at the head of the table, where, most likely, the president would be seated. In the stillness, he listened, hoping to hear the sound of a timer ticking. All he heard was the silence.

  He turned and looked to his right.

  Movies.

  He looked to his left.

  Books.

  Straight ahead.

  More books.

  Eyes to the right again.

  The movies.

  The realization exploded like a mortar shell inside him.

  He knew.

  The explosives were in the movie jackets. Had to be. It was Seneca. It was perfect. And a man sitting in this chair, at this table, had no chance of surviving a blast at this range.

  The C-4 was in the movie jackets. But which ones? And how to find them in the darkness? Cain weighed his options. Should he turn on a light and take his chances? No. Without question, security had been told to shoot first and check IDs later. As haphazard as those young guys outside were, one of them would probably get lucky and score a hit.

  Should he lose himself inside the house, wait until the president and the others arrived, and then make an appearance? On the surface, that wasn’t a bad idea. He and the president had met on several occasions, so they weren’t strangers. But the plan had a major flaw: he’d probably be riddled with bullets before the president recognized him.

  The only alternative was to locate the explosives now. But how? For once, he cursed the darkness.

  What he needed was a break, a piece of luck—anything that swayed things in his favor.

  Then it happened. Just like that.

  Anna Cohen came into the library.

  Cain had been aware of her every movement from the time she got out of bed until she entered the library. He’d heard her open the bedroom door, use the toilet, and then come down the stairs. He was behind the door when she walked in.

  Even before she was anywhere close to flicking on the small table lamp, Cain grabbed her from behind with his left arm and covered her mouth with his right hand. He held her as securely as he could without causing pain.

  “You must listen to me, and you must believe what I tell you,” Cain whispered into her left ear. “If you don’t, everyone at the meeting will be killed. Do you understand?”

  Anna Cohen, eyes wide with fear and confusion, nodded her head.

  “I’m going to remove my hand. If you elect to scream, several things will happen. First, I will break your neck. Second, those bozos outside will race in here and kill me. Third, the president and your husband and everyone else in this house will be blown to tiny bits. Understand?”

  Anna Cohen nodded her head again.

  Cain lifted his hand away from her mouth and turned her toward him. “My name is Cain. I’m with military intelligence. There is a bomb in this room, and we have less than two hours to find and defuse it.”

  “A bomb? How could a bomb have been placed in this room? By whom?”

  “An Indian who probably told you his name was George Armstrong.”

  “Yes, a man with that name was here. Twice, in fact. He also said he was from security.”

  “He was a paid assassin. He’s dead now.”

  “Dead? How do you know this?”

  “I killed him.”

  Anna Cohen’s body shuddered. “And how do I know you won’t kill me?”

  “If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

  “And you’re positive there’s a bomb in this room?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. What can I do to help?”

  “Who’s the movie buff?”

  “What?”

  “The movies. Who collects them?”

  “My husband. Why?”

  “Is he here?”

  “Yes, he’s upstairs, sleeping.”

  “Go wake him. Get him down here as fast as possible.”

  “What shall I tell him?”

  “Whatever it takes to get him down here without alerting the men outside.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to tell them? To use them as a resource? That way, we’d have a better chance of finding the bomb.”

  “It would only create chaos and confusion. It’s better if I do it alone. If that doesn’t work, we’ll consider other options. Now, hurry and get your husband.”

  Anna Cohen left the room and scampered up the stairs. Cain went to the big window and peeked through the curtains. The eight men outside, oblivious to the fact that their wall of security had been penetrated, silently went about their business.

  Five minutes later Anna Cohen returned, followed closely by her husband.

  “What’s this nonsense about a bomb?” Daniel Cohen growled, tightening the sash on his bathrobe. “That’s a ludicrous notion.”

  “I believe him,” Anna said, firmly. “And I think you should, too.”


  “Where is the Indian? Why isn’t he here?”

  “He was an assassin, dear. He planted the bomb.”

  “He—Are you certain?”

  “Yes.” Anna nodded toward Cain. “We should do what this gentleman says.”

  Cohen looked at his wife, then at Cain. His expression was one of fear and concern and disbelief. “Okay, young man, if my wife believes you, that’s good enough for me. Tell me what you need.”

  Cain walked to the far end of the table and pointed to the section of the wall where the movies were located. “I’m convinced the explosives are here. I want you to tell me if anything looks different.”

  “This is a huge house. What makes you think the bomb is in this particular room?” Cohen asked.

  “Why not? The president will be seated here, with the others in those three chairs. The best position for the explosives is here.” Cain pointed to the wall of movies. “And the protective jackets are perfect for housing a plastic explosive like C-4.”

  “Plastic explosives?” Anna muttered. “Oy vey.”

  “The bomb is here, in this room,” Cain said. “Seneca wouldn’t have placed it anywhere else.”

  “Wait a second,” Daniel Cohen said. He started to open a desk drawer, hesitated and looked at Cain. “Is it safe to open this drawer?”

  “Yes. The bomb is in one of the movies.”

  Daniel opened the drawer, took out a small penlight and handed it to Cain. “This might help.”

  After climbing onto a small metal ladder, Daniel began his search at the top shelf, moving slowly from left to right, occasionally stopping, tilting his head slightly as he studied each movie jacket. He worked his way down the shelf, repeating the procedure for all ten rows. Then he went through it a second time. And a third.

  “I can’t find anything,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be, so you might want to take a look. Maybe you can spot something I missed.”

  Cain had no reason to look. His eyes, from several feet away, had discovered the bomb two minutes earlier.

  Taking the penlight from Daniel, Cain shone it on the third row up from the floor. “Here’s your bomb,” he said.

  “Where?” Daniel asked, climbing down the ladder. His wife moved between the two men.

  “See this thin piece of wire?”

  Daniel shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

  Cain held the penlight at eye level and angled the beam downward. “Now can you see it?”

  “Yes, I do. Clear as day. How did I miss it?” Daniel stepped back, only now realizing the gravity of the situation. Hugging his wife, he repeated, “How did I miss it?”

  “It’s almost impossible to see head-on. I merely happened to see it when the light hit it from an angle.”

  Daniel said, “We would have been killed, and the dream of peace would have died with us.”

  “Peace is just that, Daniel—a dream,” Anna said, her tone angry and bitter. “I doubt the Messiah can end the hatred and the killing.”

  “There must be peace,” Daniel said, tears filling his eyes. “And we cannot wait for the Messiah. We have already waited too long for him.”

  Anna gently touched her husband’s arm, then turned to Cain. “Is the wire some sort of fuse?”

  “No, it’s simply there to connect the jackets. To make sure they all ignite when the timer goes off. My guess is that the timer, battery, and dynamite cap are in this one.”

  Cain pointed to the jacket marked Apocalypse Now.

  “My God! What kind of a world do we live in?” Anna Cohen exclaimed, anger rising in her voice. “What are we becoming?”

  “Will it be difficult to defuse?” asked Daniel.

  “No. This bomb is efficient, but very simple. Explosives weren’t Seneca’s forte.”

  “Seneca?” Anna asked. “That was his name?”

  “Code name.”

  “Code name,” she repeated. “And you … do you have …” She shook her head. “Cain. Of course. The first assassin.”

  Cain carefully removed the five movies from the shelf and set them on the table. He unwound the piece of wire, separated them, picked up the one marked Apocalypse Now, and held it to his ear. After listening for several seconds, he put the jacket against Daniel’s ear. “Hear that?”

  “Yes, yes, I do,” Daniel answered. “Sounds like a watch.”

  “It is.”

  Cain opened the jacket and removed the dynamite cap from the plastic. Next, he pulled the wire from the tip of the dynamite cap. Finally, he unwound the length of wire that connected the battery and the wristwatch. It took him less than thirty seconds to render the bomb harmless.

  “It’s hard to believe something like this could be so deadly,” Daniel Cohen said, shaking his head. His body shuddered with fear as he stared at the bomb. “Such destructive force in so small a package.”

  “It can be terribly nasty,” Cain said. “Knowing Seneca, I imagine he added a few extra touches.”

  Cain opened the jacket marked Animal House. Buried in the plastic were ball bearings and slivers of glass.

  “In the name of …” Anna Cohen’s voice trailed off, leaving her thoughts unfinished.

  Cain opened the curtains six inches and looked outside. The sun had not yet fulfilled its early promise, leaving the morning dark and gloomy. That would make his escape much easier. So would the placement of the eight soldiers, who were now standing together near the beach house, talking, laughing.

  He was thankful they weren’t assigned to protect him.

  “Do you have a pen and a piece of paper?” he asked, closing the curtains.

  “Yes, just a second.” Anna moved quickly to the desk, took a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen from the top drawer, and handed it to him.

  Cain leaned over the table and scribbled a brief message. When he finished, he folded the paper and handed it to Daniel.

  “Tell the president what happened here,” Cain said. “And give him that note.”

  “Why can’t you tell him yourself?” Daniel asked.

  “I won’t be here.”

  “Why?’

  “Because I have one more stop to make.”

  It was 8:00 p.m. when Cain steered his car into Lucas White’s driveway.

  A teenage boy dressed in red Nike sweats listened to his iPod as he walked crisply down the street. His movements, in time with the music he was hearing, were spirited, almost dancelike. He smiled and waved as he passed by the car.

  Cain sat still, feeling very weary, very alone. He laid his head back and rubbed his eyes. Only now did he realize it had been days since he’d last slept.

  At moments like this, when severe melancholy and fatigue held sway, he relied on nature’s beauty to elevate his sagging spirits. The ocean, a chirping bird, the wind, a soft rain. They were his usual weapons against despair.

  But in those truly dark moments, like now, when his inner pain reached its maximum level, he always counted on the sunset to restore his soul. That was his ultimate defense in the fight against despair. There was nothing he loved more than the sunset. Climbing out of the car, he looked to the west, where the fading bright orange sun dominated a fiery crimson sky.

  He felt nothing.

  No relief, no uplifting of his spirit, no hint of joy.

  Nothing except a deep, overwhelming sadness.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, he forced his heavy legs to climb the steps to Lucas’s porch. Before reaching for the door, he hesitated, turned, and took another look at the sunset. Nothing. Inner peace continued to elude him.

  He opened the unlocked door, stood briefly in the darkened hallway, then went into the empty den. Standing there, listening, he could hear the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. Looking around, he suddenly realized he hadn’t been in this room in nearly ten years, yet it hadn’t changed much since he was last here. It was old, familiar.

  Like Lucas.

  Being in this room, in this shri
ne, seeing the evidence of a military man’s great career, did little to lift his trashed spirits. As he surveyed the wall of photos, the weight of despair grew heavier; his spirit sank deeper into depression. He wanted to run, disappear, lose himself in shadows.

  But …

  “Have a seat, my boy. I’ll be finished in here shortly,” Lucas shouted from the bathroom.

  Cain walked behind the desk and looked closely at the Picasso painting. It was a work he adored, even though Picasso wasn’t his favorite artist. Then he looked down at the picture of himself standing next to Lucas, a photograph taken only months before he left Vietnam forever.

  So many years ago.

  The bathroom door opened and Lucas emerged wearing a silk bathrobe, blue pajamas, and brown slippers. He smelled of talcum powder and after-shave lotion. His eyes, red and swollen, found Cain’s and held them while he filled a large glass with Chivas Regal and ice. When the glass was full, he took a drink, eased behind the desk, and sat in the big leather chair.

  Neither man spoke for what seemed an eternity.

  “What made you so sure it was me and not Seneca?” Cain finally asked.

  “Because you were always the better man. I never doubted it for an instant.”

  “Disappointed?”

  “Not in the least,” Lucas said quickly. He sipped at the Scotch. “Regardless of what has transpired, I am genuinely fond of you. Always have been, for that matter.”

  “You have a peculiar way of showing it.”

  “Fate sometimes sends us in strange directions.”

  “It’s over, Lucas.”

  “So I gathered. I watched the news with great interest this morning and when I heard nothing out of the ordinary, when none of those lovely CNN anchor women informed me that my president had been slain, I could only conclude that the mission had not succeeded. I must admit I was left with mixed emotions.”

  Lucas picked up a pencil and began doodling. Just as quickly, he put the pencil down and looked at Cain. “I am curious. How did you find out?”