by Al Ruksenas
“Understandable, sir,” Colonel Jones said. “You have to be careful in how you approach a senior senator about a matter like this. Or anyone at the meeting for that matter.”
“I’m quite aware of that, thank you, Colonel,” General Bradley curtly replied.
“He knows you’re on to him, sir,” Colonel Caine offered. “I’m sure he’ll stay nervous and slip up somewhere.”
“Look where we’re going, gentleman. Are we crazy or something? Suspecting a senior U.S. Senator of treachery? A name thrown around for the presidency? Are we digging ourselves a big and unnecessary hole?”
“Senator Dunne and the Warlock leads are inseparable,” Caine replied. “So if Warlock’s information is false, it has to be Dunne, since he’s the conduit.”
“We haven’t considered that Warlock may just have been wrong this time,” Colonel Jones stated for argument’s sake. “Someone giving him ratty information. After all, he’s been reliable for many years.”
The three officers sat silently for awhile, pondering the possibility.
“I don’t think so,” Colonel Caine finally said. “We were targeted deliberately. Someone was protecting Warlock’s lead and didn’t want us to hear Hammad’s disclaimer. If it was just a bad lead, it would have been an innocent dead end. We’ve had plenty of those in the past. No one tried to kill us over bad leads before.”
“This was deliberate false information,” Colonel Jones reaffirmed.
“I have no doubt,” Colonel Caine replied.
“Why?” General Bradley asked.
“Like we discussed before, General. To buy time.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know, sir,“ Caine replied. “But I can’t help, but think that there’s got to be some connection here. Everything’s happening at once. Two fatalities of high level officials. Curious details surrounding them. They’re in the Chain of Nuclear Command. Someone trying to stifle the fact that the Middle East connection on Jeannie is bogus. The shooting outside the museum with peculiarities we discussed. Something’s going on.”
“I’d like to agree,” General Bradley said. “But it’s nothing definitive for the Omega Group. Too much abra cadabra.”
“A real dead end for a career,” Colonel Caine said, noticing his general’s stern return look. “No offense, sir.”
“None taken.”
General Bradley sat thoughtfully for a moment. “You know, when Dunne kept vouching for Warlock, he did slip out a tidbit some of us weren’t privy to. Top Secret information.” “What’s that, sir?” “Warlock’s identity. He’s Colonel Nicholai Kuznetsov. Old time
KGB.” “Heavy. Dunne must have been feeling the heat,” Colonel Jones observed. “Colonel Nicholai Kuznetsov,” Caine repeated. “Interesting.” “Needless to say. That information goes no further.” “We understand, sir,” Jones affirmed. “Arie. I need you to look deeper into these accidents. In light of everything, I’ve still got to urge some new approaches for the Group.” “Yes, sir.” “Chris. Go see Sherwyck. Jeannie’s still out there somewhere.” “Maybe Sherwyck, sir.” Caine said in response. “Maybe he’s the one buying time. He was with her last.” “Don’t say that out loud, Chris. They’ll have you a Private in some Arctic assignment in no time.” Colonel Caine nodded slightly in reluctant assent. “I’ll make nice with Senator Dunne,” General Bradley declared.
“Maybe I can tease some more information from him—or apologize. In any event, I want to keep him off balance.”
Caine looked over to his fellow officer. Both rose slowly from their chairs to see if General Bradley would say anything more. Their General seemed preoccupied. He raised his hand in a half salute, half wave of dismissal.
“Can someone get me a cup of coffee?” he said past them. The two Colonels uttered “thank you, sir” and left.
***
“What do you think?” Colonel Jones asked his partner as they left the Pentagon Building. “I don’t know, Arie. There’s something nagging about that museum. I shot two men and it’s as if they didn’t exist. I need to find out more. Besides, I promised the professor, I’d check it out.”
“Pro‐fes‐sor,” Colonel Jones stretched teasingly. “Check her out, maybe?”
Caine eyed his friend with a raised eyebrow. “Then I’ll drive out to Sherwyck’s estate.”
“Don’t you need an invitation?”
“Not if I’m investigating a matter of national urgency.”
“Don’t forget what the General said.”
“No political correctness in cases like this, Arie.”
“I agree. Just watch your back.”
They walked to the parking area at the northern wing of the building looking for their vehicles in the expansive acreage.
“I’ll look up Two Beers. Things always filter up from the streets.”
“Stay in close touch. Especially if you run into trouble.”
“Aren’t you the one shooting up Washington?”
Colonel Caine looked at his friend seriously. “Somebody around here tried to sink us in the ocean! Remember?”
Jones looked at him. Caine knew he did not need reminding.
The roar of his Viper’s engine demanded his attention as he drove out of the Pentagon complex onto Washington Boulevard winding his way southward around Arlington National Cemetery. He wondered for an instant if he might prematurely find himself on some hallowed lot inside.
Caine shifted into third gear and shook the thought from his mind. He could have left it in second, but the higher pitch of the engine would be too distracting for other motorists. The dark red roadster—meant more for the racetrack than the street—was a form of relaxation in the secret, often deadly world of his profession.
He smiled roguishly at the thought of Laura Mitchell. He could envision a more normal existence in the stimulating company of the lovely, vivacious professor, so different from the staid, ritualized mannerisms of the genteel Davis’. They seemed trapped in their own traditions and behaved as if on cue. He liked them, to be sure, but could not see continuing those traditions with their Samantha. He barely knew Laura, but she mesmerized him.
As Caine entered the cloverleaf for the Columbia Pike toward Arlington Village, he began to take note of traffic. After a third look in his rearview mirror, he noticed a dark blue sedan was keeping an equal distance behind him. He deliberately accelerated and the sedan kept pace. He slowed down and the car did not pass him. Being followed was not a new phenomenon for him. He often drove to places in a deliberately roundabout way to test or shake off tails. Working his roadster through the gears added to a devious pleasure in traffic because it quickly weaned out whoever might be deliberately behind him.
Colonel Caine presumed it could be one of the intelligence arms of a foreign embassy posing under some other title. He matter‐of‐factly presumed that other powers had at least an inkling of his membership in a secretive operations group. Caine credited his own operational successes and longevity on the basic presumption that there was no such thing as a well‐kept secret.
Now he even had reason to believe that someone in his own government wished him ill. He was resolved to ferret out the source one way or another.
Caine downshifted, gunned the engine and lurched his Viper forward. He quickly accelerated, changed lanes, shifted back into higher gear and saw the blue sedan recede farther and farther in his mirror behind a line of traffic moving normally along the city boulevard.
“Inter‐agency nonsense or inept foreign agents,” he thought as he glimpsed the sedan turning off the Pike into a side street. “It could be someone from the brass,” he thought smiling to himself. “Maybe the General’s decided to see if we’re all there,” he reflected more seriously. After all, he and Colonel Jones had reported some strange scenarios and added curious asides involving birds, dogs, and cloven hoofed animals in their search for Jeannie McConnell.
Christopher Caine drove quickly to his townhouse, taking several customary detours along t
he way. Arriving there he carefully hung up his uniform and took a long, hot shower to ease his battle ready muscles. He put on a favored old, green bathrobe, poured himself a generous measure of fine bourbon and stretched leisurely in his leather lounger for a meditative rest.
After some minutes he turned on the television and found a British made travelogue about Niagara Falls. The interviewer was questioning an old man by an inlet in the Niagara Gorge where the water formed a quiet pool in contrast to the foaming rapids beyond.
“And how many bodies is it that you find here?” asked the interviewer off‐camera.
“About fifty‐eight a year,” the man replied. “The river always brings ‘em in to the inlet. So we get a pole and drag ‘em in. If they’re too far out to hook, we get a boat.”
“Most of the bodies float into here then, do they?”
“Yeah,” the old man replied. “The bodies do. Other junk, if it’s heavier, floats right by.”
“Other junk?” thought Caine. The fellow must have forgotten the nature of his undertaking—grown callous, indifferent. He wondered about his own targets. Many of them were quite formidable, not like these poor wretches who—for whatever reason—ended up in the river. His targets would just as soon have killed him if they had the chance. No, there was no room for complacency.
He took a sip of his bourbon and idly changed channels.
His telephone rang.
“Chris?” asked a soft woman’s voice.
“Yes.” He knew instantly who it was.
“It’s Laura. Al Carruthers gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I’m glad he did,” he said readily and rose from his lounger. “In fact, I was getting ready to find you myself.”
“Can you come over? It’s about the museum.”
“I hope that’s not all,” Caine said spontaneously.
“Well…” she started.
“I’m on my way.”
She recited her address. “I’ll be waiting.”
He finished his bourbon and hastily dressed in casual slacks, a blue sport shirt and a gray sports jacket. At the small of his back in a belt holster he clipped his Sig Sauer .38 pistol.
Now he felt fully dressed and left for Georgetown.
Chapter 26
Upon arrival at her townhouse he stepped briskly from his Viper and hurried up a terraced walkway to the brick colonial with a light blue door. The mellow light of the evening sun bathed the entrance in a tranquil glow.
He rang the bell and took a step backward.
She opened the door cautiously and sighed in relief.
“Chris! I’m glad you’re here!” she blurted impulsively.
“Are you all right?”
“I am now. Thanks.”
Laura beckoned him inside. She was dressed in designer jeans and wore a low cut pastel blouse that accentuated her generous curves. She was barefoot. A hint of perfume reminded him of their meeting at the Smithsonian reception.
“Please, make yourself comfortable.” She motioned him to a couch in the living room. “You want to take off your jacket? You’re making me feel underdressed.”
“Sure.” He removed his jacket and gave it to her. “Just be careful,” he added as he deftly unclipped his holster and stuck it into a pocket.
“I guess you want it close by,” she said without flinching. “I’ll just drape it over this chair.”
“I want to thank you, again, for saving me from those men,” she said earnestly and returned to the sofa.
“I’m happy to do it, and thank you too. If it wasn’t for you I might have missed the gun on one of them.”
She sat down beside him, curling one leg under the other so she could face him. Her look was serious.
“I went to the Smithsonian the day after. Al didn’t know anything about that attack on us.”
“It was erased real quick, that’s for sure. It might take Al or anyone else some time to know what the circumstances are.”
“He did say he would try to find out. He showed me around. Especially the second floor in the gem area—where the scream came from.”
Colonel Caine listened dutifully.
“You told me you would check into it.”
“I am, Laura. The only thing is that this is a police matter. We have to go through the local authorities. I’m an army officer. I can’t involve myself directly. It’s theoretically against the Constitution.”
“Theoretically,” she emphasized.
“My work is outside the borders of the United States.”
“Theoretically,” she said again and shifted her body slightly forward.
“Theoretically,” he said looking her in the eyes, hoping she would understand his drift and not ask him something that would force him to lie. “I’ll see what more I can find out—unofficially, of course.”
“The point is,” she continued. “There’s something going on over there. You know, the Hope Diamond has a gallery all to itself.”
“It’s immensely popular,” Caine replied leaning slightly towards her. He could sense her anxiety.
“It’s cursed, you know,” she said warily.
“Everyone knows that. That’s why it’s so popular.”
“Exactly! There’s so much popular myth about it, that people end up discounting it, dismissing it with a smile.”
Caine leaned back into the sofa.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?” she offered, trying to figure how best not to sound like a crackpot.
“What’s the something?” he replied lightly.
“Well, I have some of my uncle’s brew here,” she said easing herself out of the sofa. She leaned her torso towards Caine so she could free her curled leg. Her ample breasts burgeoned against her blouse and sent a sudden rush through Caine. He watched her walk with an unconsciously provocative gait across the room to a small bar near the kitchen.
She stretched downward in profile and pulled a dark amber crystal decanter from a shelf. She noticed Caine observing her. A tingling shudder went through her body. She lifted the decanter up to the light. Her nipples hardened and she felt self conscious that they might be outlined through her blouse.
She glanced at the Colonel and felt an uncontrollable attraction to him. He seemed agile and aware, like a leopard that had just made a kill, serene and at rest in a pose that belied the deadly capability she had seen so brutally used just nights before. What could trigger him now? What were the limits of his civility and charm? Laura felt uneasy, because she was not in total control of her own senses and that in itself made her body tingle with nervous delight.
In spite of her self‐consciousness, Laura artfully returned to the couch with the decanter in one hand and two cordial glasses held casually by their stems in the other.
His eyes remained fixed on her as she eased herself back onto the sofa, extending to Caine her hand with the glasses. He took one and held it upright.
“This comes from an old medieval recipe.” She poured some of the rich looking liquid into his glass, then poured a measure for herself. “Here’s to you and everything you did. I’m deeply grateful.”
“And I’m grateful we met.” He clinked glasses with her and took a slow, exploratory sip.
The flavor of honey and various spices awakened his taste buds, then the strength of the brew announced itself through a simmering sensation deep in his mouth that grew to a pleasant burn that followed a path down his throat. “Whew!” he said with an involuntary
shudder. “This stuff is strong!”
She smiled a knowing smile as she carefully sipped her own.
“But, it is good, I must say,” he continued.
He finished the glass with his next, more liberal swallow and she poured him another measure.
“What is it?”
“It’s from an ancient recipe handed down through generations,” she explained, finishing her own drink and pouring one more. “A honey‐based liqueur that’s very popular in parts of Ea
stern Europe. It’s said to be a wizard’s elixir, a powerful potion to lure your enemies and overpower them.”
“And today?”
“Today, it’s just a special, homemade liqueur.”
“All the flavor and none of the venom.” Caine noted.
“Well, yes and no,” Laura replied. “There are stories that circulate in some of the countries, especially those in the former soviet empire. Strange stories of sorcery and politics. Especially now, with all the changes going on over there. The confusion. How we’re ripe for some kind of influence from there.”