Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “Roger that,” said Niner, returning to their own vehicle to retrieve his bag of tricks.

  Dawson’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered it with a swipe. “Hey, BD, it’s Red. We’ve got a possible location on your guy. We traced the vehicles to an office tower not too far from you. I’ve sent the details to your phone.”

  “Just a second.” Dawson brought up the secure text then tapped the location, a map appearing with an automatic routing displayed. Ten minutes away. “Got it, ETA ten minutes.” He slammed the doors on his side shut, the others doing the same, then locked it with the fob as he climbed into their vehicle. He held up his phone to the others as he put it on speaker. “Red traced the vehicles to an office tower about ten minutes from here. Let’s go.”

  Niner put the vehicle in gear and pulled out into the light traffic, it slowed by the lookyloos, as Dawson punched the address into the onboard navigation system.

  “Do you want us to send backup?” asked Red.

  “Negative, too many guns, we can’t risk the candidate.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Do you have eyes on the building?”

  “Negative, no birds are over the area at the moment.”

  Niner took a sharp right, Dawson pretty sure his side of the vehicle actually left the pavement. He gave him a look. Niner grinned. “What can you tell me about the building?”

  “Constitution Tower. Mostly financial firms, but get this, the first two floors are reserved for those corporate image packages, you know, where small companies share facilities.”

  “Got you, anything standing out?”

  “We’re running the companies now, but we won’t know anything before you get there. ETA?”

  Niner glanced at the phone. “If BD wasn’t giving me the stink eye constantly, five minutes, but probably seven.”

  Red laughed at the other end.

  “Good hunting.”

  Unknown Location, New Orleans, Louisiana

  The screens flicked off, one by one, Christopher Jones not sure what would happen now. Peter Quaid still stood in front of him, that infuriating smile still plastered on his face, and in the shadows he knew there were at least several of the gunmen that had brought him here.

  “You won’t be seeing me for a few days as I have business in Moscow. But we’ll meet when I return.”

  Jones glared at him, his stomach still churning, his heart still pounding, his entire body drenched in sweat, he not yet recovered from the very real threat to kill his granddaughter.

  And his entire family.

  “Why, Pete, why would you get involved with such people?”

  The smile slowly faded and for the first time he could have sworn he sensed a hint of regret in the man’s eyes.

  And a little fear.

  “Sometimes you wake up one day and realize the life you once thought was your own, actually isn’t, and maybe never was. Much like you’ve just been woken up.” He sat in another chair Jones’ hadn’t noticed in the darkness before. “Listen, my friend, I’m sorry this had to happen to you. But don’t blame me, I’m just the messenger here.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the blank screens. “Even I don’t know who they are. I work for them, just like you do. Unfortunately for you the choice was made for you a century ago by someone you barely remember. Your grandfather made a stupid mistake betraying these people and now you’re paying the price.” He leaned forward. “But think about it. What price? You’re going to be the most powerful man in the world very soon. They will make that happen. You will be sitting in the White House, and almost every decision you make will be yours. But in some cases, a few cases, they won’t be.” Quaid shrugged. “My life is mostly my own, but occasionally I have to do things like I did today. I’ve learned to live with it, and so will you.”

  Jones gripped the arms of his chair. “You and I, sir, are apparently two very different people.”

  Quaid frowned, immediately picking up on the implied insult. “Perhaps we are. Or perhaps we once were very similar, and in time, will be again.” Quaid rose, extending his hand. “Until we meet again.”

  Jones ignored the outstretched hand.

  Quaid shrugged. “In time, Chris, you’ll realize I saved your life tonight.” He leaned in, his voice low. “Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone what happened here tonight, or they will kill you. No matter how well protected you think you are after tonight, they will always find a way to get to you. And your family.” He rose. “Your story is this: you and I were kidnapped by unknown assailants. You were brought here, you don’t know where they took me. They threatened your life if you didn’t stop talking about the Russian sanctions, then they left.”

  Jones’ eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t that defeat the entire purpose?”

  Quaid smiled that infuriating smile again. “The truth is the best lie to tell. You will, however, be deeply affected by this, and will over the coming days tone down your rhetoric, and eventually, when you are in power, will drop the sanctions as a goodwill gesture. The minutia will be figured out later by people smarter than us. For now, just remember you were yelled at a lot then left alone. You don’t know who they are, what happened to me, and just want to move forward. As far as you’re concerned, the case is closed. Got it?”

  Jones nodded and Quaid slapped him on the shoulder, walking away.

  “What do I do?” asked Jones, turning in his chair.

  “You wait.”

  “For how long?”

  Quaid chuckled.

  “Not long, my friend, not long.”

  Assembly Covert Communications Facility, Moscow, Russia

  “The infection continues to spread,” said Number One, Ilya Mashkov sipping his tea, it now five in the morning in Moscow. He had been woken by his butler, Dimitri, a trusted man provided by The Assembly.

  Urgent business.

  It’s always urgent with them.

  He didn’t trust his butler as far as he could throw him. He was an Assembly man which meant his loyalties were to them, not him. Though he never had any intention of betraying them, there was always the chance he could screw up one day, and Dimitri would be there to catch him.

  And report back.

  Then he’d most likely be dead.

  It meant he never felt comfortable in his own home, which sort of defeated the purpose of being “all powerful”. He was trying to ignore the man’s background, and at times he was able to forget, and perhaps eventually he’d put his foibles behind him—after all, The Assembly seemed to be all seeing, all knowing, so if he were to screw up, then there’d be no way they wouldn’t find out, butler or no butler.

  He took another sip of his tea, a brilliant concoction from Dimitri that was one of the many reasons he wished he could trust the man, he spectacular at his job.

  “What is it this time?” asked Number Two.

  “Our agents are reporting increased Internet traffic involving the painting.”

  “Is it still localized to the same geographic region?”

  “Negative, it’s now going global. We have significant search traffic originating from St. Paul’s University and the surrounding area, as well as the Smithsonian and several other academic institutions and museums around Europe.”

  “And there’s no chance this is simply a coincidence?” asked Mashkov, almost instantly regretting it, all the silhouettes freezing for a moment as if in stunned silence at his stupidity. “What I mean is, are we sure there hasn’t been some new reference to it in a movie that may have spurred a temporary blip. I would expect that after the release of the James Cameron movie and the recent hundredth anniversary, search related traffic would have spiked. Perhaps that’s all we’re seeing now.”

  Number One decided to humor him. “I don’t believe so. Our NSA sources have provided us with copies of several emails sent from St. Paul’s University and a residence in St. Paul where a professor claims to have the painting in his possession, and means to authenticate it posthaste.”

&nb
sp; Mashkov frowned. “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Indeed. A forgotten painting, unknown to all but a few, is suddenly a hot topic among academia. And should this painting actually be authenticated, it could be a disaster for us. Too many questions will be asked.”

  “Do we know who this professor is?”

  “Yes. Professor James Acton.”

  Mashkov’s eyes narrowed. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “You might remember him from the report on our two CIA headaches, Dylan Kane and Chris Leroux. Professor Acton was Kane’s teacher at university, the one who apparently encouraged him to join the Army.”

  “I thought we had ordered Leroux and Kane eliminated?”

  “We did, but it has to appear as an accident and unfortunately that has proven difficult with Kane being a deep-cover operative and Leroux constantly accompanied by a CIA security detail.”

  Mashkov pursed his lips, nodding slowly. “Perhaps we need to draw Special Agent Kane out.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “With a little bait.”

  Constitution Tower, New Orleans, Louisiana

  Niner pulled into the office complex, the visitor parking out front mostly empty, only a few stray vehicles in view, though to the right there were ramps that lead to underground parking. As he slowly drove up to the front of the building Atlas cursed.

  “Is that who I think it is?”

  Dawson turned to see what Atlas was looking at.

  A large black sedan matching the description of the vehicle that had left the underpass earlier.

  “Can you see the plate?”

  “Not from this angle.”

  “Park.”

  Niner nodded, swinging into a spot. The sedan drove past, the license plate light giving them a nice view.

  “That’s them,” confirmed Atlas, holding up his phone with the plate numbers. Suddenly the car surged ahead, careening sharply onto the road.

  “Gee, boss, do you think we’ve been made?” asked Niner as he hammered on the gas, jumping a curb and ending the useful life of two small pine trees. Niner glanced in his rearview mirror before cranking the wheel and flooring it. “Good thing Marty didn’t do that, hey?”

  “Huh?”

  “Would they have called it No Pine Mall?”

  Niner hammered the brakes, taking off some speed as he made another sharp turn, his mad skills getting them closer.

  “Are you on your damned movie references again?” asked Spock as he rolled down his window, prepping his weapon.

  “When do we ever leave them?” asked Niner as they continued to gain, the engine in the government issued law enforcement vehicle impressively tuned. “So, if Marty McFly had run over both trees with the DeLorean, what would Old Man Peabody have named the mall?”

  “You datin’ anyone?” asked Atlas as he leaned out the window.

  Several gunshots rang out, Niner not bothering to swerve, the ballistic windshield able to withstand most small arms fire. “No, why, your sister single?”

  “Neeever gonna happen, little man.”

  “Hey, easy there, big fella. I’ve showered with you so I know stereotypes are bullshit.”

  Atlas’ eyes shot wide open. “What are you trying to say?”

  “Taking out the tires,” said Dawson, ending the verbal castration. He took a bead on the right rear tire and opened fire as the sedan skidded around another corner, three quick shots, two finding their mark, the tire shredding within seconds, sparks flying from the steel rim as the car rapidly slowed then came to a halt, all four doors bursting open as those inside jumped out in a hail of gunfire.

  Niner skidded to a halt, positioning the vehicle directly behind the hostiles as he drew his own weapon, he and Dawson opening fire on the gunmen as Atlas and Spock in the rear threw open their doors, stepping out and joining in.

  It lasted only seconds, all four gunmen down, all four Delta operators unscathed.

  “Don’t shoot!” shouted someone from inside the car.

  “Come out with your hands up!” ordered Dawson as he opened his door and stepped out, using its reinforced skin as a shield.

  “Okay, I-I’m coming out.”

  A pair of hands appeared, then a foot followed by another, Peter Quaid finally appearing, shaking like a leaf. “M-my name is Peter Quaid. I was kidnapped with Christopher Jones, you know, the man running for President?”

  Dawson motioned for Atlas and Spock to advance, the two men immediately rushing forward, weapons aimed at Quaid. They quickly cleared the vehicle, then patted down the still quaking civilian.

  “He’s clean,” said Atlas, stepping back, the first sirens of local police sounding in the distance.

  “Where’s Mr. Jones?” asked Dawson, stepping forward.

  “I-I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since they took us from the hotel.”

  “Did you both get in the same vehicle?”

  The man hesitated for a moment. “Umm, yes.”

  “And after the switch?”

  “I-I’m not sure, we had hoods on. I think so, maybe. I-I just don’t know!”

  “BD, if we’re going to keep a lid on this, we better book.”

  Dawson nodded. Atlas was right. “Okay, take him with us. Let’s get back to that office tower, see what we find.”

  Atlas and Spock each grabbed an arm and half carried, half walked the man to the SUV, helping him into the back before climbing in themselves. Niner quickly pulled a U-turn, guiding them around the light evening traffic that had been caught up in the mess, casually turning down a side street as onlookers gawked.

  Onlookers who had cellphones out, recording everything they saw.

  “Shit!” muttered Niner.

  “I guess there’s no keeping a lid on this now,” said Atlas.

  This just turned into a Charlie-Foxtrot.

  Unknown Location, New Orleans, Louisiana

  Lights flickered on, the entire room bathed in a sudden harsh, white light, startling Christopher Jones from his reverie of self-pity. He turned to see a janitor backing into the room, pulling his cart, earbuds entertaining him during his lonely shift.

  Jones looked around. It appeared to be some sort of hi-tech conference room, a long, oval table in the center with a bank of monitors filling one entire wall, empty chairs ringing the table.

  Empty chairs.

  He breathed a sigh of relief, pushing himself up from his seat then straightening his tie and jacket, running his fingers through his hair before he squared his shoulders and walked out a door at the opposite end, the janitor not noticing him.

  He saw a sign for the elevators and walked toward them as calmly as he could, realizing he was doubtless on security cameras. Pressing the button, the elevator immediately chimed, probably left there by the janitor. He stepped on, hitting the button for the main lobby.

  As the doors closed, he ran through his story in his mind, still not sure if he wanted to go through with it.

  They’re going to kill Kaitlin if you don’t.

  Bile filled his mouth and he took a quick breath, realizing he had no choice. He had to follow their instructions.

  Then when he became President, he’d devote every resource he had to finding and destroying this organization.

  Starting with Peter Quaid.

  The doors opened and he stepped out into the lobby of what appeared to be a Class-A building. To say any of this was what he expected would be a mistake. Before the janitor’s arrival, he had visions of a James Bond super-villain lair, or an abandoned warehouse in a seedy part of town.

  Not what appeared to be a modern office building.

  A security guard behind the desk nodded to him. “Good night, sir.”

  “Ah, g-good night,” he stammered, not sure of what to do. Should he order a taxi? Call the police? Call the Secret Service?

  Not the police, they’ll ask too many questions.

  He could call the Secret Service, though he wouldn’t even know how to begin without
raising suspicions.

  Call the room at the hotel?

  That seemed to be the wiser idea. By now for sure the Secret Service would be there.

  And his wife.

  Constance!

  He had totally forgotten about her in all this. What had happened to her? Was she okay? He had seen the bodies dragged into the room before he was taken—staff and agents. Did they kill her as well?

  He had to know.

  “Can I borrow your phone?”

  The guard nodded, lifting the phone up and placing it on the counter. “Dial nine for an outside line.”

  “Thanks.”

  He lifted the receiver and hit 9 when tires squealed outside and headlights beamed into the lobby. He looked toward the door, the guard rising as four doors of an SUV were thrown open and men piled out.

  Men with guns.

  He slowly backed away from the door as the men advanced on the main entrance.

  “I’ve got a situation here!” shouted the now panicking guard, his weapon drawn, a radio in the other hand pressed to his mouth. “Four armed gunmen!”

  The lobby was still well lit which meant those outside had a clear view of the two of them. One of them raised his hands and reached into his pocket, producing a wallet. He held a badge up against the glass and shouted, his voice muffled.

  “Federal authorities! Lower your weapon!”

  And Jones recognized the voice immediately.

  Agent White!

  “Th-they’re with me!” he cried excitedly, motioning for the guard to lower his gun. Jones raised his hands and rushed toward the doors as White and the others entered, their weapons aimed at the floor, though still at the ready as they cleared the lobby. The Asian one disarmed the guard, leading him back to his chair, the poor man still shaking.

  “Are you okay, sir?” asked Agent White.

  “Y-yes. How d-did you find me?”

  “Satellite footage. We traced the vehicles. Are they still here?”

  “I don’t think so.” He looked over his shoulder, toward the elevators. “I think they all left about ten minutes ago.”