"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be so mysterious," Jaxon said. "The security is for me. Once I leave, so should the need for any concern for your well-being. I'm just hoping you can listen to something for me and, if you can, interpret it. You won't have to be involved beyond that."
"Yeah, right, not involved," Lucy replied sarcastically; then her brows knitted together. "Why do you need me to interpret something? You guys have linguistics experts at Quantico who are probably as qualified as I am."
"No one is as qualified as you are," Jaxon responded gallantly. He paused as if to think something over, then, apparently making up his mind, said, "Let me explain a little about what's going on."
Jaxon waited for Lucy to take a seat in one of the rustic aspen-wood chairs that were standard for the room's decor. Jojola turned to the fireplace, which was Lucy's favorite feature of the room, and began to build a fire.
"Okay, let's have it," Lucy said.
"Well, first thing to get out of the way is that I'm no longer with the FBI," Jaxon replied. "In fact, officially, I'm not with the government at all anymore."
"Not 'officially'? So now you're a spook with somebody like the Department of Homeland Security?" Lucy asked, her voice harder than she intended.
She knew that her aversion to the department was unfair-that most people who worked for the department, which had been formed after the 2001 terrorist attack on the World Trade Center, had the country's best interests in mind. But there was something about the department's leadership that rubbed her the wrong way. They seemed almost cartoonish with their silly, different-colored "terror alerts" that had done little except raise fears only to call the all-clear with no explanations…sort of like the boy who cried wolf. But more than that, she disliked how they defended every gouge at civil liberties in the name of the War on Terrorism as if it weren't yet another step down the slippery slope. After all, it wasn't really spying on the American public as long as it was in everybody's best interest.
To her relief, Jaxon shook his head. "I'm not with the department either. Officially, my group doesn't exist and very few people know that we do. Even the director of the FBI knows only that I suddenly decided to take early retirement. Outwardly, my reason is that I'm blaming myself for Andrew Kane's escape and the massacre of those children and agents. But we've planted rumors that have more to do with me selling out for a very well-compensated position with a private security firm. The bureau isn't very happy with me because I hand-selected a half dozen of the best agents I knew and took them with me into 'private practice.' However, for your ears only, I remain a humble, underpaid public employee, as does my team."
Lucy frowned. It wasn't like Jaxon to make speeches, and this one didn't sound quite true…or maybe just not complete. "If you're still a fed, couldn't you use their resources?"
Jaxon shook his head. "As far as the bureau is concerned, I've gone over to the dark, well-paid side. We're mercenaries. They wouldn't touch us with a ten-foot stun gun. But that's intentional on our part."
"So I assume you're another government antiterrorism agency?" Jojola asked. "I thought the whole reason behind the Department of Homeland Security was to bring all agencies under one umbrella so that you guys would communicate and work together."
"It was, and still is," Jaxon said. "There are a lot of good people fighting a war that few members of the public know is happening, except as military actions in far-off countries and the occasional bombing in New York, Bali, Madrid, or London. But as for me and my people, we're not specifically antiterrorism but sort of trying to track organizations that might be using terrorism to further their own unrelated ends-like Andrew Kane demanding a billion-dollar ransom for the Pope while his terrorist pals planted bombs in the cathedral in the name of Allah. I can tell you that I was asked to take this assignment shortly after the debacle at St. Patrick's Cathedral, when it was clear that our agencies-including my own-had been infiltrated and compromised by traitors. I guess you could say we've been asked to watch the people who are supposed to be doing the watching."
Jaxon paused and shook his head sadly. "The truth is, maybe I should have retired after the St. Patrick's hostage crisis was over," he said. "A lot of it happened on my watch."
"That's nonsense, Espey," Lucy said. "Who could have guessed at Kane's intentions? So, then, who do you work for?"
"I can't say," Jaxon replied. "And if you ask elsewhere, the government will deny our agency exists."
Lucy whistled. "Like Mission Impossible."
"Or when they sent us into Laos in sixty-nine," Jojola added softly. "We were to supply recon for marines, but the mission didn't officially exist. And if we were killed or caught, we would have simply disappeared in the eyes of our government."
"So who's behind this infiltrating and compromising?" Lucy asked.
"That's the million-dollar question, Lucy," Jaxon answered. "If we knew, we could cut the head off the serpent and the body would die. But we haven't been able to get anyone close enough yet to understand how they're organized or what their real aims are. Hell, we don't even know if they have a name they call themselves. They're not out there like al Qaeda or Hamas claiming responsibility for acts they did or even didn't do."
"If they're so secret, how do you know they exist?" Jojola asked.
"Good question," Jaxon answered. "I hope that my mission here tonight will help establish that. But up to this point, all we know is that there seems to be an organized group that is flying under the radar but manages to manipulate and use other people, even other organizations-including terrorists-to achieve its ends. One other thing we know is they are absolutely ruthless-so ruthless, if my guess is right, that they were willing to murder the Pope and a couple of thousand people as part of their plan."
"I thought Islamic terrorists and Kane were behind that-for their own ends," Lucy said.
"They were," Jaxon acknowledged. "But that doesn't mean that Kane and the terrorists weren't being assisted by someone else for purposes even they may not have realized."
"Do you have any suspects?" Jojola asked.
"Well, we have a name, Jamys Kellagh," Jaxon said. "Who he is, no one seems to know. However, we're told by informants that he seems to have been playing the middle man between Chechen extremists, Kane, and perhaps people in our own government, as well as the Russian government. But other than a name we have nothing-no photographs, no way of identifying him. We don't even know if Jamys Kellagh is a real name or an alias."
"So I assume all of this has something to do with what you want me to listen to," Lucy said.
Jaxon nodded. "Sorry to give you such a long story and provide so few answers. However, just a few days ago, we received a recording of a conversation purportedly between Jamys Kellagh and someone higher up in this organization. We're told it's important and may involve a plot in New York City."
Lucy sighed. "Of course. Why not? Just paint a target on Manhattan."
"I know how you feel," Jaxon said. "My kids are there now, too, living with their mother in Midtown. Unfortunately, as a symbol of the United States there aren't many better targets. But I have no idea what is being said in this message. That's why I've come to you."
Lucy looked up and had to blink away tears. She considered New Mexico her home now, but she'd grown up in Manhattan and that's where her family lived. She was tired of worrying about them. "So where's this message?"
Jaxon reached into his suit-coat pocket and pulled out a small device that Lucy recognized as an MP3 player. He reached into another pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag from which he removed a wafer-thin disc the size of a quarter and inserted it into the MP3. He handed the device, as well as a pair of earphones to Lucy, who put them in her ear and pressed the Play button.
Lucy heard two men talking in a foreign language with the apparent older man doing most of the talking. The message only lasted twenty seconds and ended with what sounded like, "Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh."
Lucy hit the Play button again, the
n a third time before placing it back on the table.
"So any ideas?" Jaxon asked.
Lucy pursed her lips. "It sounds Celtic…a very old archaic form if I'm right…but nothing I've heard before. That last bit, 'Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh,' sounded like a sign-off…sort of like 'See you later, alligator,' though I suspect it's not quite so innocent."
Jaxon looked at her for a long moment, then nodded and picked up the MP3 player. "Well, thanks for trying. I thought I'd give it a shot."
"Hold on," Lucy said. "I said I didn't know the language. However, with a little help from someone I know, we might get a translation."
"Who is this person?" Jaxon asked.
"Just a guy I know in Manhattan," Lucy replied. "I wouldn't want to give up his name until I've spoken to him. But he's spent most of his life studying the Celts-their languages and history. An odd duck, but I'd consider him the foremost authority in the United States. I'll give him a call."
"You trust him?"
Lucy smiled and nodded. "This guy lives with his mind in the twelfth century. I won't tell him anything except that I need to see him about a translation. He'll be happy to help. Like all right-thinking men," she added with a wink, "he's madly in love with me."
Jaxon chuckled. "Certainly any man who never changed your diapers, which leaves me out." He was interrupted by a coded rapping on the door. "Come in," he said.
The door swung open and Agent Tavizon poked his head in. "Sir, the farmer we tracked down earlier is here asking to see the young lady."
"He's a cowboy," Lucy said. "Let him in."
Jaxon nodded and Tavizon stepped back. Ned Blanchet appeared in the doorway, scowling and looking like he was about to avenge the farmer remark with his fists.
"Anything wrong?" he asked, walking over to Lucy with an angry glance over his shoulder at Tavizon, who looked at him blankly, the way a shark looks at a fish when it's not particularly hungry.
"Not any more than usual," Lucy said, and gave him a hug and a kiss.
"Great." Blanchet scowled more. "Just what I wanted to hear."
Jaxon shook Blanchet's hand. He respected the young cowboy, who'd proved himself to be a man of action, certainly more than Agent Tavizon was giving him credit for.
"So, when do we leave to see my friend?" Lucy said. She was getting impatient to get rid of the G-men so she could devote her attention to Ned.
Jaxon looked at Ned. "Sorry, pardner," he said before turning to Lucy. "But I'm going to have to ask Lucy to go with us now."
8
Gilgamesh barked twice at the sound of the buzzer announcing that visitors had arrived at the security door three floors below the Crosby Street loft. Karp scratched the dog behind the ears, got up from his easy chair to walk over to the apartment foyer, and pressed the intercom button.
"Hello?" he asked. The visitors were expected, as they'd called from LaGuardia Airport to say they were on their way, but at nearly midnight in Lower Manhattan, it paid to be safe.
"It's Mikey O'Toole and Richie Meyers. Have we come to the right place?" a voice replied from the speaker.
"You have, indeed," Karp said. He pressed the button to unlock the security gate and then opened the front door to wait for the elevator to arrive outside the loft.
When the elevator door slid open, two men began to step off with suitcases but stopped when they saw the enormous Presa Canario dog panting next to Karp, who noticed their expressions and chuckled. He thought of Gilgamesh as the family pet, but he sometimes forgot that many people took one look and immediately thought Hound of the Baskervilles, or maybe Cujo.
"Trovisi giu," Karp told the dog, who wagged the nub of his tail at the visitors-he was a lover, not a fighter, unless commanded otherwise-and then trotted over to the easy chair where Marlene was reading a newspaper and slumped to his belly with a sigh.
"Holy cow!" the older and larger of the two men exclaimed. "We have bears smaller than that in Idaho. What was that you told him?"
Karp grinned mischievously. "These guys are not for dinner."
"Actually," Marlene said, rising from her chair with a smile, "that was poorly pronounced Italian for 'Lie down.' Otherwise, he would have said, 'Questi uomini non sono per il pranzo,' which doesn't mean anything to Gilgamesh. Unfortunately, my husband's fluency in Italian is about as well developed as his sense of humor."
The first man laughed and stepped forward, extending his hand. "Mr. Karp, it's been a long time." He was nearly as tall as Karp, and like his brother, Mikey O'Toole was a redhead with sea-green eyes and a constellation of freckles on his face.
"Too long, Mikey," Karp said, nodding and shaking his hand. "And I thought we agreed you'd call me Butch. That Mr. Karp business coming from someone I've known since he was nine years old makes me feel older than Methuselah. You remember my wife, Marlene Ciampi?"
"Yes, sir, Butch," Mikey O'Toole replied, turning to Marlene. "And of course, I never forget a pretty face."
"Ha! I see the apple fell from the same tree," Marlene said, laughing. "Your brother was a great bullshitter, too. And it's Marlene, before you 'ma'am' me again; then I'd have to hurt you."
"I meant every word," O'Toole said, then turned to the younger man, who stood behind him smiling at the repartee. "I'd like you to meet my attorney and, more important, my friend, Richie Meyers."
Shorter and muscularly compact, a former all-American collegiate wrestler and nationally rated chess master, Meyers appeared to be in his midthirties, although his short blond hair and tan face made him look younger. He shook their hands; then his eyes glanced to something behind Karp and Marlene. "And who are those two fine young gentlemen?" he asked.
Looking back, Karp saw the twins, Isaac and Giancarlo, peering from the hallway that led back to the bedrooms. "Gentlemen is a relative term when it comes to these two rascals, who by the way are supposed to be in bed and asleep," he growled. "But since they're here…Zak and Giancarlo, come on out and meet an old friend, Mikey O'Toole, and a new friend, Richie Meyers."
Pleased to be invited to join the party, the thirteen-year-olds emerged and shook hands, which gave the visitors a chance to appraise the boys. Born only minutes apart, they were alike and then again, not so much. They both had curly dark hair, like their mother-Giancarlo wore his somewhat longer, while Zak kept his short. The merry brown eyes and cupid-bow lips were nearly identical, and again favored their mother's Mediterranean looks.
However, Zak was stockier, more muscular, and carried himself like an athlete. His face was already more rugged than that of his brother, and more olive-colored, like Marlene's. Giancarlo's features were more delicate-not effeminate, just leaning toward classically beautiful rather than ruggedly handsome. Like Michelangelo's David, Meyers thought, an impression heightened by his complexion's almost translucent quality.
"Any baseball players between the two of you?" O'Toole asked. "I'm always scouting."
"Me," Zak responded immediately. "Any position, and I can already hit a curveball."
"Impressive," O'Toole commented, then looked at Giancarlo. "And you?"
"He's horrible," Zak answered for his brother. "Can't field, can't hit, throws like a girl. He's afraid he'll hurt his hands."
"At least I have more brains than a golden retriever," said Giancarlo, then acted as if he were throwing a ball. "Here, boy, fetch. Get the ball. That's a good Zak."
With technique born of long practice, Marlene moved between the two potential combatants. "What my little Neanderthal Zak meant to say is that his brother, Gianni, is a gifted musician. He plays several instruments and prefers not to ruin his chances at playing Carnegie Hall."
"Nothing wrong with that," O'Toole responded. "I wish I'd learned to play an instrument."
"Ah, you can always do that when you're old and can't play ball," Zak quipped.
"Out!" Karp commanded before Giancarlo could protest. "You two can continue to impress our visitors with your obnoxious behavior tomorrow. In the meantime, lights out, and I better not
hear any squabbling."
Giving each other a dirty look, the twins did an about-face and headed back down the hall to their bedroom. If they engaged in any murder and mayhem after that, at least they did it quietly.
O'Toole gave Karp an amused look. "Quite a handful, those two."
Karp rolled his eyes. "Yeah, any more of a handful and we might all end up in the loony bin. If only they'd put as much effort into their bar mitzvah lessons. They're so far behind, they've had to delay the event until next fall when-if we're lucky-they'll pass into Jewish manhood only a year behind their peers."
It wasn't an entirely fair assessment of his sons' efforts. After all, they'd had to deal with their father getting shot recently, not to mention a half dozen run-ins with terrorists, murderers, and psychopaths over their short lives. Not exactly conducive to studying the Torah, Karp thought, but still they seemed to have plenty of time for their Game Boys and Xboxes.
"They'll be worse tomorrow if they don't get to bed," Marlene said. "Fortunately, it's Saturday so they can sleep in a little."
"Sorry to get here so late," O'Toole apologized. "There weren't a lot of flights from Boise International to New York on short notice. You sure you don't want us to stay in a hotel?"
"Not at all," Marlene replied. "We have plenty of room if you don't mind sleeping on bunk beds surrounded by entirely too much pink, as well as posters of the Backstreet Boys and a hundred or so stuffed animals. It's our daughter Lucy's room. She's currently living in sin in New Mexico with a handsome young cowboy."
"I'm sure it will be just fine," O'Toole responded. "But I got dibs on the bottom bunk. I tend to toss and turn, so the top bunk would pose a hazard."
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