Rogue (An American Ghost Thriller Book 1)

by J. B. Turner

  Crichton closed his eyes. “Jesus.”

  “There’s one final aspect of this we need to consider.”

  “Which is?”

  “What if Jeff Patterson was genuine? What if he was telling the truth?”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “What if he wasn’t on drugs?”

  “Jessica, he was delusional.”

  A long silence. “Perhaps.”

  Crichton turned his back slightly as a waiter came within earshot. “Why the skepticism?”

  “Listen to me. There’s no way he was a heroin addict. But if he was, he did a good job concealing it.”

  “Oh come on, Jessica, nobody knows what a man—or woman for that matter—is really like. You only have to look at us. No one knows about the true nature of our relationship other than us.”

  “I’m not buying it. Patterson was very specific. He said you were on a list. A list where others had died in mysterious circumstances.”

  “You don’t know what demons he had. Was he a paranoid wreck? If he was using heroin or some opiate, he could have imagined any sort of delusional conspiracy.”

  “What I do know is he was desperate to tell us you were on a hit list. And then he’s found dead. Coincidence?”

  Crichton thought about that for a few moments. “He spoke to me too.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No. He managed to get my number, this number.”

  “When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want to get bogged down in this. It happened . . . just over twenty-four hours ago. Maybe a bit more. He mentioned the deaths of two other people. Said I was next.”

  “This is not good, Brad. We need to really focus on this.”

  Crichton sighed. “Look, I’m really busy just now . . .”

  “Brad, we’ll take care of it. We’re going to work out your options and strategy over the next few hours. And I’ll give you a call tomorrow to talk things through. How does that sound?”

  Crichton blew out his cheeks. “OK, I suppose.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “No, I’m not OK. This is not the sort of news I want to hear.”

  “We’ll sort it out, don’t worry. Tell me about the conference.”

  “I’m surrounded by really smart people. But unfortunately they’re all saying the same thing. They want bigger and bigger budgets, more intervention, more spending, more of everything. And now this news about this goddamn blogger. So no, I most certainly am not OK, now that you ask.”

  “That’s natural.” A beat. “I also just want to say . . . I miss you . . . I mean, having you around . . . You know what I mean?”

  Crichton felt his neck flush. “I do. I miss you too, Jessica.”

  “I love being with you. I love being around you.”

  Crichton rubbed his tired eyes. “Sure.”

  “And that’s why this concerns me so much. I’m worried.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I want us to be happy. Us. You do too, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You sound distant.”

  “Lot on my mind.”

  “You’re the only thing on my mind, Brad.”

  “Jessica, I have to get back.”

  “OK. Don’t worry about this. We’ll make sure there’s no fallout from Patterson’s death.”

  Crichton was distracted for the rest of the evening. He picked at his food as he tried to make conversation with the other delegates. But they could see he was preoccupied, and he made an excuse to retire to his room early.

  Almost immediately his bedside phone rang.

  “Good evening, Senator, sorry for bothering you.”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s a lady in the lobby who wishes to speak to you.”

  “Did she give you a name?”

  “She says she works for the US Embassy in London. She’s been cleared by security. She says it’s rather urgent she speak to you.”

  “Did she say what it was about?”

  “Only that she needed to speak face-to-face.”

  Crichton groaned. He couldn’t abide listening to advice from the diplomats as a rule. He wondered if she wanted to talk about the conference. But maybe it was something more urgent. The blogger perhaps. He sighed.

  “Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.” He ended the call and headed down the stairs, where he was greeted by an attractive middle-aged woman.

  “Senator,” she said, extending her hand. “Sorry we haven’t been introduced. Francine Carmetto, Deputy Chief of Mission, US Embassy in London. So nice to see you. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

  Crichton shook his head. “Just finishing some briefing papers.”

  “I was sitting at an adjacent table and I saw you leave early.”

  “We’re meeting first thing tomorrow for some plenary session, is that right?”

  “Yes, I believe so. But this isn’t about the session.” Carmetto smiled and pointed to some lounge chairs at the far end of the lobby. “Please.”

  Crichton followed her, sat down, and sighed. “So what’s going on?”

  “A friend of mine has asked to meet you.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  “He works out of the consulate in Edinburgh.”

  “Ah . . . And he wants to speak to me? Now?”

  Carmetto nodded. “In person.”

  “Do you mind me asking what the urgency is?”

  “I can’t say, sir.”

  “So where is he?”

  “He’s outside, waiting for you in a car. He was attending a plenary session and thought it would be good to introduce himself.”

  Crichton was tongue-tied for a few moments as his stomach tightened. “Waiting for me? Why the hell doesn’t he come in? We can talk here.”

  Carmetto sighed. “I believe he has some matters of a confidential nature he would like to discuss with you.”

  Crichton shrugged. “This is all very interesting. But I need to know more before I agree to such a meeting. Besides, I have some briefing papers to work my way through tonight.”

  “I appreciate that. But I believe we are talking about matters of a classified nature. National security, that kind of thing.”

  Crichton said, “I see.”

  Carmetto nodded and smiled back at him as if to reassure him.

  “Right now?”

  “I think that would be best.”

  Crichton sighed again. “I’ve got an hour. No more.”

  Carmetto got to her feet. “Excellent.” She headed outside into the cold night air as Crichton followed. He saw a black SUV. Its engine was purring, the back door open invitingly. She guided him to the car.

  Crichton looked inside and saw a rugged-looking white man wearing a gray suit, dark-blue tie, matching silk handkerchief, and white shirt. He slid in and shut the door.

  They drove off and headed down the estate’s long, dark driveway.

  The man turned around and stared at Crichton. “Senator, appreciate your time. Apologies for the manner of our meeting. Couldn’t be helped.”

  “Do you mind explaining what this is all about?”

  “I’m Brigadier Jack Sands, military attaché, US Consulate General Edinburgh. You met my colleague, who picked you up at the airport.”

  Crichton nodded as he tried to assess what was coming. “Where are we going?”

  “Just for a drive.”

  Crichton said nothing.

  “How’re you enjoying Scotland?”

  “I had planned to get in a round or two of golf at Gleneagles, but it’s wall-to-wall meetings, I’m afraid.”

  “Beautiful country. You ever been to Edinburgh?”

  “Only passing through the airport.”

  “Let me tell you, if you get a chance, get down to Edinburgh. Finest city in Europe, bar none. Athens of the North.”

  “Brigadier, I’m sure you haven’t asked to speak to me at this ungodly hour to extol the bea
uty of Edinburgh. You mind telling me what it is you want?”

  Sands sighed and stared straight ahead. “What do you know about Jeff Patterson?”

  Crichton’s insides knotted tight. “What do I know about him?”

  Sands nodded.

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “Have you heard he’s dead?”

  Crichton said nothing.

  “Did you know this?”

  “I was made aware of this earlier. An hour or two ago.”

  “Has he ever approached you?”

  “Brigadier, I respect you have a job to do, but for the life of me, I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.”

  “Let me put it another way. Has he passed any classified documents or material to you?”

  Crichton was rather taken by surprise. “I don’t believe this is a matter I should be discussing with anyone.”

  “Let me try yet another tack. Are you leaking government security secrets?”

  “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, Brigadier?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “Has this guy passed you any documents?”

  Crichton felt agitated at the directness of this questioning.

  “Answer the goddamn question.”

  “No, he has not.”

  Sands took a few moments to digest the information. Then another few moments to answer. “I appreciate your candor. Just to give you a heads-up, there’s an investigation under way into his death. And your name has come up in the conversation. Would you have any idea why that might be?”

  “Brigadier, I’ve never met the man. I know he’s a journalist.”

  “But we believe he was trying to contact you. And I believe he actually spoke to one of your advisers. And yourself, on the phone.”

  Crichton shifted in his seat.

  “Can you confirm if that is the case?”

  “Yes, I did speak to him.”

  “And would you mind telling me what it was about?”

  “Brigadier, I’m drawing this conversation to a close. I think I’ve said enough. If you want to speak further about this, I suggest you speak to my attorney, my brother, Murray Crichton, in DC.”

  Sands sighed long and hard. “Of course.”

  The car turned around and five minutes later he was dropped off back at the floodlit country house.

  Crichton opened the door and stepped out. He turned and faced Sands. “In the future, Brigadier, go through my attorney with regards to such matters.”

  “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Senator.”

  Crichton shut the door. He watched as the car pulled away, driving slowly down the dark road and into the night.

  Twenty-Four

  Two days out

  The early-morning sun was glinting off the windows of the Scottish country house as Nathan Stone peered through military-grade binoculars with a perfect line of sight. He was hunkered down in an elevated bird blind about a mile away on the edge of woodland that fringed the ivy-covered perimeter wall of the estate. Then suddenly he spotted his prey.

  Senator Brad Crichton jogging in the manicured grounds.

  Moving the binoculars, he saw the security detail lurking at a safe distance, talking into radios.

  Stone used the binoculars to follow Senator Brad Crichton as he pounded the dirt trail within the grounds of the country estate. He saw Crichton had earbuds in as he ran. He fixed on the politician’s face. His eyes were focused on the route ahead. He appeared to be in excellent physical shape. Lean face and physique.

  Stone’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pressed it to his ear.

  “Good morning, Nathan.” The voice of his handler. “How are you this fine morning?”

  “Just biding my time.”

  “We’re in a holding pattern now, Nathan. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “In effect, we’re waiting for the pieces to fall into place before we make our move.”

  “You talking openings?”

  “I’m talking openings . . . I’m talking a free day for delegates. But things are fluid. They seem to be changing the itinerary and schedules on a daily basis.”

  “Well, whatever, I’m ready. I see exactly what he looks like. Here and now. What else do I need to know?”

  “He’s very fit, as you can see. Wrestling champion at college. Dabbled in martial arts as part of a fitness routine. And boxing. So he can handle himself.”

  Stone said nothing as he stared through the binoculars at Crichton. “What about family?”

  “They’re back in the States.”

  “So we should have a clear run.”

  A long pause. “We don’t know at this stage.”

  Stone sensed that his handler wasn’t telling him the full story. “What do you mean?”

  He let out a sigh. “His wife has spoken to a friend about perhaps surprising her husband with a visit on the final day of the conference. But we’ve not had confirmation. And no flights have been booked for her. Maybe something to be aware of.”

  Stone said nothing.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Makes no difference to me. Whatever it takes, it takes.”

  “We’d like you to hunker down in the bird hide until further notice. You OK with that?”

  “Got everything I need here. Flask of coffee, snacks. I’m good.”

  “Be in touch.”

  The line went dead.

  Twenty-Five

  Just after midday UK time, Jessica Friel’s plane touched down at London’s Heathrow Airport. She stepped off with her overnight bag, jet-lagged and fatigued. Her body clock was telling her it was dawn. She picked up her suitcase from baggage retrieval. Then she sat down for a complimentary coffee and some snacks in the British Airways lounge. She dialed her boss’s cell phone number. It was diverted to voice mail. But then he called back.

  “Jessica?”

  “Hi, sorry to bother you.”

  “Is it about this Patterson guy?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Brad, I got a delivery yesterday. UPS. I opened it after we spoke.”

  “A UPS delivery? Not so unusual.”

  “It was from Jeff Patterson’s attorneys.”

  A tense silence hung between them for a few moments. “What?”

  “They had been instructed to send me a package upon their client’s death.”

  “What kind of package?”

  Friel sighed. “It was a Jo Malone perfume set.”

  “I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.”

  “But at the bottom of the box there was a tube of lip balm.”

  “What?”

  “Guess what was in that.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Brad . . . the lip balm was disguising a flash drive. A USB flash drive.”

  “Is this some sort of joke?”

  Friel tried to block out a loudspeaker announcement of an incoming flight. “Brad, I’m in the UK.”

  “What?”

  “I’m here, in the UK.”

  “The UK? You’re not in DC?”

  “There were instructions inside the perfume box. And they were specific. To hand it over to you in person with immediate effect.”

  “Why would you fly across the Atlantic to tell me that?”

  “Why? Brad, after everything that’s happened, I wanted you to get this.”

  “Oh jeez . . . Jessica, what the hell were you thinking?”

  “What do you mean? I thought you’d be pleased to get a heads-up. I’m in London.”

  “Jessica, you should have called before you left.”

  “Why?”

  Crichton sighed. “We don’t know what it contains. What are the legal ramifications?”

  “I know what it contains.”

  “What?”

  “That’s why I flew all this way. To be here with you
and deliver it in person.”

  Crichton said nothing.

  “Look, I’ve got to catch a flight to Inverness in the next half hour.”

  “You’re headed to Scotland?”

  “That was the plan.”

  Crichton groaned.

  “I had to bring this to you. Patterson was right. You are on this list. Your name is on it.”

  “Jessica, I don’t know anything about this crazy guy. But now you could be in possession of classified government secrets.”

  “To hell with that. This is proof that you’re at risk.”

  “Do you know who visited me last night?”

  Jessica said nothing.

  “A military attaché wanted to speak to me. An American based in Edinburgh. And he wanted to know if I knew Patterson. This is already a serious issue. And the last thing I need is to be implicated in any way.”

  “You need to see this. Don’t you understand the gravity of what I’m saying?”

  Crichton sighed long and hard.

  “Maybe I should have called you to talk it through.”

  “How long until you can get here?”

  Jessica cleared her throat. “It’s a ninety-minute flight to Scotland. British Airways. Half an hour till departure. I’ll grab a taxi at the airport.”

  Crichton sighed. “No. I’ll meet you at the airport. Far more discreet.”

  “Whatever you think, Brad. Please don’t be angry with me.”

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  Crichton ended the call as Jessica fought back tears.

  Twenty-Six

  Nathan Stone shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun through the storm clouds as he sat parked not far from the main terminal at Inverness Airport. He took a drink of the strong black coffee he’d picked up at a roadside café en route. He had been glad to get the call from his handler to get out of the blind, even for a few hours, to keep an eye on the senator and his mistress.

  He watched as a group of schoolchildren walked out of the terminal escorted by harassed-looking teachers before being greeted by their parents, bubbling with happiness. Grabbed up in the arms of mothers and fathers and smothered with kisses and laughter and hugs.

  He felt nothing. It was probably true that most people would react with delight at the scene. But all he could think of was his father.