by Jim Magwood
He could see Sylvia was terribly hurt and was torn with trying to lift her or leaving her alone. Then he turned to Paul, still lying under her, and started trying to determine his condition.
“Paul, you hear me? Paul? Paul? You with me, man? Open your eyes, okay. Open up. Come on, man. Look here at me.”
Paul’s eyes fluttered and he rolled his head and Jake kept prodding him gently. Paul started to clench his hands and move his arms, then a leg. He couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t move and a sudden flash of panic filled him. He started to struggle at the weight on him until Jake’s big hand settled on him and pressed him back down.
“You’re okay, man. It’s Sylvia. She’s on top of you. Slow down here and let me try to move her. Be still a minute.”
Paul started to get his bearings then and gradually realized what had happened and where he was. Then he felt the weight move off him as Jake gently lifted Sylvia and put her on the hall floor beside him. It was only then that Paul could look at her—and almost screamed. She was a mass of blood. He couldn’t even see the actual damage because the blood had flowed so much and now covered her. Her face was simply a red mass with dim outlines of the features.
The manager had stepped over the trio and knelt beside Paul, trying to determine if he could help. Paul was moving and seemed to be generally okay, so he just said, “9-1-1s been called. They’re on the way. I’ll go down and show them the way up. Take it easy, okay?”
Paul was trying to sit by then and he edged his body to lie back against the wall. The manager stepped over him and then ran down the hall and the stairs.
“How is she, Jake?”
“I don’t know. Hurt bad maybe. A lot of blood, considering, but don’t look like any artery damage, just all this— shrapnel.”
He had her blouse open and was trying to get inside her vest to see if she was bleeding from under the vest.
“I don’t think there’s any damage inside her vest. Maybe it stopped everything there. But she’s got a lot of stuff in her face, and her arms and legs. She’s out cold, but still breathing okay. Slow, and a little ragged, but she’s getting air. And her hearts pumping.” Then he turned and screamed down the hall, “Where’s the medics? Get them up here NOW.”
Then he turned back to Sylvia and Paul and said, “They’re comin’. You two just hang on, okay. They’ll be here in a minute. Listen, I can hear them comin’. Here them?” He kept talking gently, trying to be reassuring, trying to be calm.
Paul slumped back against the wall again and looked down at Sylvia. Then he turned in his pain and reached over to grab Jake’s arm.
Jake looked at him, and Paul whispered, “Get Sarge.”
CHAPTER 62
Jeff Sheldon read the paper early that morning, as usual, and saw the first mentions of the explosion and the injured officers. Sylvia had been rushed to an emergency center in the first ambulance, Paul and Jake in a second one. Paul had been seriously battered, but appeared to be okay. The medics just wanted to have Jake checked for possibilities.
The hotel room was demolished. Very little had been in the room, but what was there was trash now. There would almost certainly be fingerprints and DNA, but the investigators were taking it slow to not further disturb anything. The rooms on both sides and above and below 304 had been severely damaged, but no one else had been hurt. Parts of the outside wall had major cracks, so it was likely the rooms and that part of the hotel would be off limits for an extended time. There was no mention of any explosive type or what had actually caused the disaster.
Sheldon was basically unimpressed. He knew the cops had tried to kick their way into the room, and the room had been wired. It’s what he personally would have done. The report simply said another person had left the scene just before the explosion and had not been found. Jeff was concerned for him, but knew there was nothing he could do at this point. Hoped he was okay. Hoped maybe the cops learned another lesson: Leave folks alone.
He quickly logged into a few police sites, but nothing much was being said yet. Mostly the same general information as was coming in by regular news. He did, though, pick up a short broadcast about looking for a suspect down at the railroad tracks and put that into his thinking cap. He thought hard about how to exploit his ability to tap into many investigative agencies, but also wondered how far to keep himself away from the event. True, it was an accident, the room being found, but it helped the cause and he knew he could find ways to link it to the other events—or not. But, could he make it work for him? No reason to pursue it if he couldn’t make it work for him.
As he got into his normal work, he kept thinking about what he could do until about noon a little idea began to gel. Could he, should he, plant some hints linking the “missing” person from the scene with the other events? Maybe give them some false identification on him so the police would be looking in all the wrong places? Then, the more he thought about it, the more the idea opened up. He rested back in his chair and began to dream.
Maybe plant information strongly linking the missing person with other events, but having him running from the scene, then being “seen” in various parts of the country, maybe showing up overseas? He couldn’t specifically link anyone to this event because the railroad guy was local and could be caught fairly soon. But, if he linked the missing guy somehow, nobody could give anything to the cops except denials. Nobody could disprove or prove anything and the cops would have another windmill to tilt at.
And, if he stirred up enough little pots all over the place, maybe he could give them enough craziness to make it a major event. Maybe it could ultimately become as big as his other creations and have them all floundering. What if he also started creating some other people who were purportedly involved? He could create two or three, even a dozen, all involved in several major conspiracies all over the city, maybe expanding over the nation. With enough links coming in from all over the place, this could become the conspiracy of the decade.
Hey, this could work. This could work very well, indeed. Jeff got excited.
He started looking through news reports from all over the country to find unexplained violent events, or mysterious computer-type occurrences, especially anything having to do with banks or government agencies, that he could start making up perpetrators to link to. He started with macro-searches for crimes or events having to do with banks and agencies or violent events, then began refining them further and further as key terms gave him clues. If “bank” brought a series of events having to do with the Fed, or a family of banks, or a politician talking about “suspicious activities,” then he filed them as events he could possibly link to each other. When he found a politician named, or a certain agency being questioned, he knew it would be simple to plant little seeds that would get attention.
This could really be fun, he thought. This could come out to be very big.
As hundreds of situations, names and so on came rolling out of his searches, he started making up individuals that he could associate with them and scenarios where he could tie them together just enough to keep law enforcement agencies everywhere running. In addition to the regular police departments across the country, if he could get the alphabet agencies, FBI, CIA, DEA and so forth, running with them, confusion would reign. As he saw a few items from other countries pop up, he thought about maybe even a heavy international flavor. If he could cast a stone in the pond so the ripples would wash up everywhere… Maybe this could go far beyond his personal hatred of his own government. Maybe…
He noticed a bombing in Seattle from last week that had similarities to the one in D.C. yesterday. Police had been trying to question someone in relation to a series of grocery store fires and a device in the room exploded when they tried to gain entry. Perfect similarity, he thought. The report even gave the suspect’s name. He had been killed in the explosion, but maybe dropping his name into some kind of message related to the D.C. explosion? Not maybe, he thought. The relation in the same kind of circumstances would definitely get some heads
turning on both sides of the country.
Jeff quickly drafted an e-mail message to one of the D.C. papers from “an anonymous friend” telling them they should look into the explosion in Seattle. He mentioned that he knew both of the men and that “the two guys were working on the same project.” He purposely left the message vague and without any details and knew a certain D.C. wannabe investigative reporter that would find, or make up, all the details necessary to link the two events in a conspiracy. He hit the “send” button and sat back relishing the excitement he knew the reporter would be going through shortly.
He knew he shouldn’t make up any messages directly between any agencies that could actually talk with each other. They would quickly determine the rumors he sent out were fictional. The best way was to send rumors to news agencies. They would investigate them toward their own ends, ask questions of law enforcement that would simply be denied, therefore fueling more suspicions, and print stories which would be unanswerable and which would continue to fuel more investigations by the news people. They are so easy to control, he thought. Even the best of the reporters ran with stories unable to be proven and full of unanswerable questions. The talking heads didn’t even care as long as they had words coming out of their mouths.
He saw a news article come on the screen with a statement made by a French diplomat questioning whether agents of the Russian mob might be emigrating to Israel along with the many Jews trying to get out of Russia. The statement gave a few possible incidents of banking irregularities that had been discovered with trails supposedly in both Russia and Israel. Jeff thought about sending some international news agency a hint about the mortgage rip-offs that had now been discovered all over the U.S., with several international banks also screaming over the losses.
He quickly put together a “letter to the editor” of the French newspaper that had carried the diplomats questions loudly berating the world police agencies for not shutting down criminal activities such as those in question. He then dropped in a hint about “those bank losses all over America that must be tied together with the mobs and the Jews.” Once again, Jeff knew just the suggestion would send reporters from France messaging all over the world tracking down the linked events, and those messages and questions would fuel more fire, and more, and…
Yes, he though again. This is going to be fun, and big.
Paul had been released from emergency after it had proven out that he received no major injuries, just heavy bumps and bruises. A couple of the shrapnel pieces had hit one of his arms and one had gone completely through his left earlobe, but otherwise he was okay. Sylvia, though, was another matter.
Her vest had prevented any cutting or piercing of her central body, but all her extremities had multiple wounds. The damage to her arms and legs was mostly simple piercings that, though they didn’t do any major damage to blood vessels and nerves, required many hours of digging by the doctors to remove the shrapnel. The concussive force of the blast that she walked into, though, had possibly caused damage to internal organs, muscles and joints that just couldn’t be seen quickly. Much more internal damage might be found as the days went by.
Her face was another matter. Luckily, her eyes had not been directly damaged. Her glasses had kept projectiles from directly entering and it was mostly impact damage that was the concern. However, the rest of her face and neck had received hundreds of splinters, large and small, that would take days of work to dig out. As yet, no one could say whether muscles and nerves had been injured or destroyed. Much of the effort to care for her would be on going, with exam after surgery after repair continuing as each new injury or pain was discovered. Her life was not in jeopardy, but no one would say what her appearance was going to be and whether her face would ever truly be clear, lovely and functional again.
Paul and Jake had not been able to see her, and all they could do was sit in the little chapel and agonize. Dozens of other officers dropped in over the hours. Some prayed; others tried to say comforting things; others just sat quietly. Just being together. Many tried to keep up the hard façade, the toughness, but most had fears and tears just under the surface. And anger. Vicious anger. They left for the streets with hard, determined looks. Heaven help any idiots that would get in the way of some of these men and women in the near future.
Sarge had not been found. “He’s just not around,” Jake told Paul. “Looks like he ran. Found his shack, but no stuff left behind. Just empty. But we’re lookin’, Paul. Lookin’ hard.” Paul could only nod, and suffer.
If only he hadn’t gotten them into this. If they had called in SWAT. If they hadn’t kicked… If. Recriminations. Anger at his stupidity for listening to an old bum without checking everything out beforehand. Anger at allowing them to investigate without more care and caution. Anger. Boiling anger. And the fear. Waves of fear rolling through him like ocean currents carrying grains of sand like razor blades, cutting through him every moment. As if the blood coursing through him, his thoughts riding the brain waves, his very breath all carried the razors, pushing them along leaving agony behind, pain he had never dreamed of feeling.
He didn’t think of his life ahead, the future. He could only feel the pain, taste the fear and the anger like caustic acid in his mouth, his mind, his being. Life was only now, this moment. There was nothing beyond. Just the moment—the anger—and the fear.
The “soldier” called the special phone number he had been given. He was perfectly capable of living anywhere and probably escaping any detection, but he didn’t have any plans to guide him now. He had no sense of fear or loss, just a sense of needing some direction. He could walk away and live on his own forever. He could survive as a bum on the streets, or could even get enough of himself together to pursue other employers who could use his special services. But he actually wanted to stay where he was, helping as he had been doing, being a part of this organized action. There was a security in it.
The voice picked up the phone on the other end and simply said, “Yes?”
“I alone here and wonder what to do.”
“Are you safe? Do you need anything?”
“No, I okay. Nobody saw me. But I alone now. Should I be helping? Do you still want me?”
The voice heard no concern or fear coming through the phone, just a wondering tone as if he was just asking for the job of the day. It was good to connect again and to know the man was safe. He could be pretty sure no one could ever track the man, but he’d have to be careful in any case. Make sure there was actually no tracing or following going on.
“Do you have anywhere to stay?”
“Jes’ here on the street. But I okay.”
“How about food? Or do you need any medicine or help?” “I can find food. Don’ need help. Jes’ wanna keep working maybe. You want me?”
“Yes, we’re still together. And we have a lot to do. But we need to be careful. Do you have any idea how they found you?”
“No. They jes’ come up. Don’ know why. Jes’ come up is all.”
The voice knew that the man could survive anywhere. He didn’t need to worry about that. He did have to figure out a way for them to start working again, though. There was much to do and he wanted to keep the pressure on the police so he could get his work done. It had to be completed.
“Okay, then. Do you remember where the first drop is? By the fountain in the park?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m going to leave you some money there today or tomorrow. I want you to have some food and to get a place to stay. Get another hotel room, maybe a motel, across town, someplace quite a way from where you were. Where nobody will recognize you. Did you get hurt at all? Will anyone connect you to the hotel?”
“No, I okay. Not hurt. I get me a room with yur money an’ be quiet so nobody sees me. They’s lots of places be good. We still gonna work?”
“Yes, there’s lots to do yet, but I’ll have to figure out the best way to start again. Do you still have the list?”
“Yes, gr
abbed the list and the guns. Got ‘em both. Should I do more on the list?”
“No, wait for me to call you. I’ll need to do some more planning. You get a room with a phone and then call and let me know the number and where you are. Then we’ll make more plans. Okay?”
“Yes, okay. I call you an’ let you know. An’ I wait for you.”
“That’s good. I’ll make some more plans and then we can work again. I’ll try to get the money to you today, so you rest.”
“Okay. Bye.”
The connection was cut and he settled back. It appeared everything was okay, they were still secure. He didn’t think the man would be found, and he couldn’t lead anyone to him even if he was. But, there was work to do, and it would be a shame to have to start all over with someone else. When the soldier got bedded down again, he would get him moving on the list. He was pleased that though it had worked out differently than he had planned, the cops were now hurt and confused and would be running in many directions trying to find their way. But they would remember and be angry, and afraid. One of their own had been badly hurt and they would come gunning. But they wouldn’t know where to look, and there were now going to be too many links keeping them confused.
The work could continue.
CHAPTER 65
Jacob arrived at his lodge in the far north woods of Alberta and immediately felt the cares and pressures of his world drop off his shoulders. He was very busy as a university professor, but also still had responsibilities within the Mossad and with the leaders of his country. While he was officially retired from active duty, his work for the Mossad continued with recruiting activity, conferences advising the leadership, and continued contact with field troops that were still, though unofficially, his. His days were sometimes long and very heavy. The lodge, though, was peace.
His caretakers, Peter and Marie, ex-agents of his from Russia, had picked him up in the Edmonton airport and ferried him to the lodge. Marie had babied him with a delicious meal, and they had then demanded that he retire to his suite for the night. Jacob slept effortlessly, with just the sounds of the wind in the trees and the creek running in the background. He awoke to a delicious breakfast that included what he thought must be truly world famous cinnamon rolls and he felt like the proverbial new man.