The Butcher's Bill (The Linus Schag, NCIS, Thrillers Book 2)

by Martin Roy Hill

  "He also has enough money to buy the Pentagon, and all the politicians in it," Schag added softly.

  "That's enough of that," Riley said, with even a stronger look of warning. Schag merely shrugged. "He should be logging on anytime now."

  At that instant, the video screen blinked twice and the stern, angular face of William Bennett III stared down at them like an angry schoolteacher.

  "Sir, good afternoon, sir," Riley said. "My name is Special Agent Tom Riley, the agent in charge for the NCIS Southwest Region."

  Bennett nodded and said, "Agent."

  Riley waved a hand toward his subordinates. "These are Special Agents Schag and Parker."

  Bennett turned his mouth down. "Schag? That would be this Linus Schag that the madman called for?"

  "That would be me, yes," Schag responded. He knew what the next question would be.

  "And what do you think . . . triggered this man Butcher's action, special agent?"

  "I'm afraid I'm as bewildered by Bill Butcher's actions as everyone else," Schag replied.

  "Sir, we just returned from a meeting with local law enforcement authorities. They've retained the services of a . . ." Riley paused and pursed his lips. ". . . of a brain trust of psychologists to try to determine Mr. Butcher's motivations. They are looking at a number of possibilities, including PTSD, traumatic brain injury, and—" Riley turned to Schag. "What was it that doctor told you about?"

  "Agueloquine," Schag said, surprised Riley had actually paid attention to his description of Clarke's theory.

  "Yes, agueloquine."

  Bennett's eyes narrowed. "Agueloquine?" His thin lips pressed tighter together. "What about agueloquine?"

  Riley turned to Schag again and waved at him to answer.

  "Agueloquine is an anti-malarial drug," Schag began. "A preventative. In some people, it can have an adverse neurological impact, a kind of toxicity that can cause psychosis. Lieutenant Commander Kendra Clarke is a Navy neurologist who's been studying this problem. She told me she's confirmed Mr. Butcher was prescribed this drug while he was deployed to Iraq. She thinks his behavior might be caused by agueloquine."

  Bennett nodded, his lips still pressed together. After a moment, he said, "Very well. And what are your plans on how to deal with this man?"

  "Sir, since Mr. Butcher is no longer a Navy employee, the murders he apparently committed fall under the jurisdiction of local law enforcement, more precisely the local sheriff's department. Our role is merely to liaison with the sheriff's investigators and provide assistance as needed."

  "I had hoped your office would be a little more proactive in this matter, Agent Riley," Bennett said. Schag noticed Riley blanch.

  Riley cleared his throat.

  "Sir, we are limited by our jurisdiction—or lack thereof in this case," he said. "However, our jurisdiction does include providing protection to former Navy officials who may be threatened by Mr. Butcher. As former assistant secretary of the Navy, sir, we are ready to provide you with protection. Now, I understand you're here in town. Our agents can take you to a safe house and—"

  "Thank you, but no," Bennett said. "I have arranged for my own protection, agent. Your help will not be needed."

  "But, sir—"

  Bennett shook his head and held up a hand.

  "Not needed, Agent Riley. But I thank you." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. Schag noticed it was a Rolex, but Bennett's looked far more expensive than Riley's. "I have to go. I would appreciate regular updates on this matter, agent. I'll have my office provide you with information on how you can contact me."

  Then the screen went blank.

  The three agents looked at each other, dumbfounded.

  "Provided his own protection?" Schag said. "Who?"

  "I read somewhere he did that when he was assistant Navy secretary," Riley said. "He would go off for days with no official guard detail. He'd hire his own bodyguards."

  "Who?" Schag asked.

  "Gideon Security," Riley said.

  The three agents looked at each other again.

  "Considering happened last night," Schag said, "who's going to guard the bodyguards?"

  CHAPTER 8

  MONDAY

  Gideon Security International Training Compound

  San Diego County, California

  1600 Hours

  AIDAN BLACK WAS NOT IN a good mood. The events of the past night—the deaths of two of his operators at the hands of a psychotic maniac—did not make good publicity for Gideon Security International. As Gideon's chief executive officer, he had built what had once been a security guard company providing rent-a-cops to shopping malls and sporting events into one of the largest security and tactical training companies in the world. Gideon currently had contracts not only with the U.S. government and its military and law enforcement agencies, but also with governments around the globe. He built the company a reputation for high-tech, low-drag operations. However, he had used the knowledge of propaganda tactics he learned in the Army to build that reputation. It didn't matter what the customer saw, it was what they believed, and Aidan Black could make most people believe anything. Black saw nothing wrong in that; every company did it. They called it public relations, advertising, or whatever. He simply did it better than most.

  Sitting at the desk in Cavendish's office, Black flipped a Gideon challenge coin between the fingers of his right hand and thought about the consequences. Black was tall and thin, with thinning, dark hair and a closely cropped mustache. The mustache was part of the facade. He had copied it from a sergeant major in the British Special Air Service. It had the effect of imparting the air of a professional soldier. He encouraged his operators to adopt similar mustaches, which they did to the point the moustaches became known as the Gideon Brush.

  The challenge coin slipped from his fingers and clattered on the desk. He picked it up and stared at it, first one side, then the other. It was the color of pewter, gray with a touch of color for highlights. Both sides sported a rendition of the American eagle, wings spread wide on one surface, furled on the other. He copied that, too, from a Department of Homeland Security challenge coin. The side with the spread-eagle wings read GIDEON SECURITY INTERNATIONAL. The other side read UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. The eagles, the bold words, and the weight of the coin itself imparted the feeling of strength and patriotism to the customers he gave them to.

  The problem, as Black knew damned well, was that Gideon Security was a house of cards that could tumble down with one wrong move, a move like having two of his operators—possibly three since one was still missing—killed by one man. It was particularly appalling that Butcher had infiltrated Gideon's Southern California training center, killed its director, and escaped into the night undetected. My God, no one at the center knew anything had happened until someone went looking for Cavendish in the morning. Black had flown out from the east coast as soon as he had heard the news. By the time he arrived in San Diego, Twitter was alive with sarcastic tweets about Gideon. With the sheriff's forensics team finished in Cavendish's office, he sat at the desk wondering how he was going to salvage Gideon's reputation.

  In a fit of pique, Black threw the coin across the room. It hit the wall, bounced off, and landed on the carpeting where Cavendish's blood had pooled. That would need dealing with straight away, he thought to himself.

  The sound of Black's cell phone interrupted his thoughts. He glanced at the number. Oh, God, what does he want?

  He pressed the answer button and said, "Aidan Black."

  After listening for a minute, he pulled a pen and small, green, military memo pad from his pocket.

  "I don't understand," he said. "What? Who?"

  He jotted a name on the pad.

  "And who is she?"

  He made another notation on the pad.

  "Just discredit her? That's all you want?" he asked. "No wet work?"

  Black held the phone away from his ear as it blasted the caller's reply.

  "Fine. Fine," he said. "I
'll get on it right away."

  He ended the call, laid the pen down, and looked at his notes. The right side of his mouth twisted down as he rubbed the bristles of his moustache thoughtfully. The name of a private investigator he'd used a couple of times came to him. Trustworthy enough for a price, and not too encumbered with scruples. He found the name still in his phone's contacts list and called it.

  "It's Aidan Black," he said. "I've got a job for you. We need information on someone, preferably something nasty. The subject's name is . . ." Aidan looked at his note pad again. ". . . Clarke, with an 'e.' Lieutenant Commander Kendra Clarke."

  ☼

  "Tom?" Riley's attractive executive assistant leaned through door. "Yolanda Butcher's here. A couple of the guys just brought her in."

  Riley looked up from his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose, looking every bit the corporate executive. "Fine. Bring her in." He stood and quickly put on his black suit coat, and waited in the center of his office. When the woman came in, he offered his hand.

  "Mrs. Butcher," he said. "Thank you for coming."

  "I didn't have much choice," Yolanda said. "Your agents were very insistent."

  She was Hispanic. Riley guessed her to be about thirty-five only because he knew she and Bill had been married more than ten years and had two kids. She looked younger. She was medium height, about five foot seven, he guessed. The jeans and blouse she wore revealed a slender, athletic build. Riley figured she was as much into physical fitness as her ex-SEAL husband was. Her deep brown eyes probed his.

  "Yes, well, in light of everything happening with Bill," he said. "I mean, with you two being estranged, we worried your safety might be endangered and wished to offer you our protection. We like to think of you as still part of the Navy family. Please have a seat."

  Yolanda sat in a padded chair in front of Riley's desk. He sat on the edge of the desk and asked, "Did you bring your children?"

  "No," Yolanda said. "I've already sent them to my parents, and they are flying out with them today to my sister's place in Texas. My brother-in-law is a police officer there, and he's taking time off to guard them until . . ." She sighed. "Until this is over."

  Her voice waivered on the last word, and she swallowed hard.

  "Ha-Have you been in touch with Lin Schag?" she asked.

  Riley nodded. "In fact, he's just down the passageway in the bull pen. I'm surprised you didn't see him."

  Yolanda's eyes widened. "He's here? Can I see him?"

  "Certainly." Riley picked his phone and dialed a number. "Tim? Riley. Could you tell Schag to come to my office?" He replaced the phone. "He should be here soon."

  Two minutes later Riley's executive assistant opened the door again and announced, "Special Agent Schag to see you, Tom."

  "Lin!" Yolanda propelled herself out of the chair and almost bowled Schag over as he walked through the door. "Lin! Oh, my god, what's happening?"

  Schag embraced her, a warm, friendly embrace, and stroked her glistening black hair.

  "I wished to god I knew, Yolanda," he said. "I-I didn't know that you and Bill . . . that you two had broken up."

  She stepped back and looked at him.

  "Bill didn't tell you?"

  "I haven't heard from Bill in the better part of a year," he said, shaking his head. "I sent him emails, but he never replied."

  Yolanda turned away from Schag and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.

  "Oh, Lin, this is how it's been," she said. "Ignoring old friends . . . and family."

  Schag guided her to the chair in front of Riley's desk, and she sat down. She took a tissue from her purse, dabbed her eyes, and wiped her nose.

  "I don't know what you mean by that, Yolanda," Schag said.

  "It's . . . it's . . ." Yolanda took a breath, looked at Schag, then Riley. Schag got the hint. Talking about her marriage problems with an old friend was one thing. Talking about them in front of a stranger was something else.

  "Maybe we can find someplace quiet to talk," Schag said.

  He offered his hand to Yolanda to help her stand, but Riley waved him off. "No, no," he said. "The only place you'll find privacy here is the interrogation room—not very comforting. Stay here. I've got people to talk to anyway."

  Riley picked a stack of file folders off his desk and turned to Yolanda.

  "But, Mrs. Butcher, I'm serious about giving you protection. We don't know for certain what kind of state of mind Bill is in. We can set you up in a nearby safe house. You'll be comfortable there, and you'll have two agents guarding you around the clock."

  Yolanda looked at Schag, her eyes questioning. He nodded.

  "Can Lin come?" she asked.

  Riley shook his head. "I'm afraid not. We need Agent Schag here. It's not our investigation, but we still need to liaise with the local authorities, and Agent Schag knows Bill better than anyone does. Except for you, of course."

  Yolanda stared at the floor a moment, sniffed, and nodded. Her answer was barely audible. "Okay."

  "Fine," Riley said. "I'll have two agents waiting for you when you two are finished. But take your time." Riley turned the doorknob and paused. "And, Lin, I'll have my assistant book you a room here on base at the Gateway Inn. You'll be here for a while."

  "Actually, Tom, I've already booked a room at the Gateway at the sub base on Point Loma," Schag said. Riley cocked his head questioningly. "Better view," Schag said, nodding toward Riley's office window.

  Riley glanced out the window at the gray steel hulls towering above sun-drenched docks, the skeletal stairways leading up to the ships' brows, and the parked cars crowded in front of them.

  "A better view than this?" he said. "You must be kidding." Then he left the room, closing the door behind him.

  ☼

  "Lin, I don't know what happened to Bill," Yolanda said, turning to Schag. "He'd been on deployments before with the SEALs. There were some bad ones, but he would never let it affect the family. He would go get counseling and deal with it. But this time . . ."

  "I saw him in Bahrain," Schag said. "We had dinner and a couple beers. He seemed fine."

  "And he was . . . at first," Yolanda said. "Then things started happening. He'd come home from the office angry or sullen, complaining people wouldn't listen to him."

  "About what?" Schag asked.

  Yolanda shook her head, and brushed a long strand of fine black hair back behind her ear. "Something about a bunch of money someone lost in Iraq—"

  "You mean the nine billion dollars that disappeared?"

  "Yeah, that's it," Yolanda said, nodding. "You know about it?"

  "Bill mentioned it when we had dinner that night."

  "Bill was obsessed by it. He said they wouldn't let him work on it at the office, so he worked on it at home. He'd stay up late working on the computer, looking stuff up. I'd beg him to come to bed, but some nights I don't think he got any sleep at all before going back to the office."

  Schag bit his lower lip, thinking. "Do you know what he was looking at on the computer?"

  Yolanda shook her head again. "No, but they looked like some kind of business sites, maybe investment sites or bank sites. Something about money transfers and stuff."

  Schag nodded. "Go on, Yolanda."

  "He began acting . . . The only way I can describe it is paranoid. He thought people were talking behind his back at the office, that people would look at him funny when they didn't think he could see him."

  Schag remembered something from the sheriff's briefing.

  "Some psychologists at a briefing this morning were talking about something called workplace mobbing," he said. "Did Bill ever complain that people at work were angry at him, blaming him for things?"

  "No. No, I don't think so," she said. "Not at first, at least. He was upset they wouldn't let him work on the missing money thing. Oh, I don't know." Yolanda's hair moved in glistening waves as she shook her head. "But he started becoming suspicious of everyone. He thought he was on to some big c
onspiracy. He'd start ranting about it at home. The children would run to their rooms and hide. They were afraid of him, Lin."

  "Was he drinking a lot?"

  "No, Bill hardly ever drank," Yolanda said. "Maybe a beer now and then."

  "He didn't hurt them, did he?" Schag asked. "Or you?"

  "Certainly not," Yolanda said. "Bill adored the children. He'd never hurt them or me. I only sent them away . . . as a precaution."

  "Same reason we want to set you up in a safe house," Schag said.

  Yolanda looked at him, her eyes moist with tears. An ironic smile played on her lips. "Yeah, I guess so."

  "When did you two separate?" Schag asked. "And why?"

  "Six months ago, almost," Yolanda said. "Bill was becoming too irrational. His rants. His late nights on the computer." She paused and carefully wiped a tear from her eye. "And the distance. He had no time for the family. And then . . ."

  Schag waited for her to go on. When she hesitated, he touched her hand.

  "When I realized . . ."

  She stopped, collecting her thoughts, trying to figure out how to describe it. She leaned forward toward Schag, looking straight into his gray eyes.

  "One day we were out jogging. There's a stretch of ocean bluff where we used to run together. We're going along, enjoying the scenery, and talking a little. All of a sudden, Bill stops and turns around and starts screaming at someone. I jogged back to him and asked him what was wrong. He said some asshole had said something to him he didn't like."

  "Said what?" Asked Schag.

  "I don't know," Yolanda said. "Bill never said. He just kept screaming at whoever it was."

  "And who was it—this guy Bill called an asshole? Did you get a name?"

  Yolanda's eyes blinked at Schag, and he saw them grow even sadder.

  "That's just it, Lin," she said, her head shaking. "There was no one there. That's when I realized it was all in his head. He was hearing voices, Lin. Like a madman."

  CHAPTER 9

  MONDAY