“Anything?” Pause. “Good, you said ‘Maine Stage Theater Supply, in Portland?’ Okay, Tony, right now give them a call and see if they have a security cam. Give me a call back when you get that. Right, bye.”
“I ordered for you, Henry,” said Beto. “We’re having the Couple’s Special—a big bowl of spaghetti with pesto sauce and a platter of their mixed grill. They assume we’re gay. Just so you know.”
“Sounds good, honey,” said Henry. “I got a weird feeling about our neighbor over there at View Point. My assistant is doing some research.”
The waitress came to their table with two peach martinis. Henry looked at Beto and just shook his head.
“Thanks, miss,” Henry said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Andrew Johansen wheeled his polycarbonate equipment case into the Bellefontaine Mansion, up the elevator to the second floor and down the hall to Suite 23B. He knocked on the door and Frances immediately opened it and welcomed him in.
“There’s sandwiches on the counter there in the kitchen, sodas and beer in the fridge. Help yourself.”
Andrew carried his case with him to the kitchen, grabbed two sandwiches, took a Coke out of the refrigerator. Frances joined him in the kitchen. She pulled a chair up to the table and waited for Andrew to speak.
“Good sandwich,” said Andrew. He opened the case and pulled out a power strip. “Mind plugging this in for me?”
He removed several digital devices from slots in the hard foam packing and placed them on the table. He plugged each of them into the power strip and connected them together. He pulled out his laptop and connected it to one of the devices with a USB cable.
“With these, I can still keep up with our operations. This one receiver,” he pointed to a cube-shaped device with a large round antenna affixed to the top, “monitors signals off one of our satellites from the enemy’s locations on the East Coast.”
Andrew dreaded having to meet with people. He’d been monitoring his pulse and he took his blood pressure every couple hours. Everything was out of whack.
Here in the kitchen with the one person with whom he had attained some measure of trust, he felt himself calm down. The food helped. If he had such a thing in his life as a “safe place,” it was his mouth stuffed with food.
“What else you got to eat, Frances?” he asked.
Frances went to the cupboard and the refrigerator and pulled out four boxes of cookies, two bags of chips, and a half gallon of chocolate ice cream. She put two bowls and spoons on the table.
Andrew thought, This lady’s prepared. As he ripped open the cookies, Frances filled a bowl with ice cream. After stuffing a couple chocolate chip cookies in his mouth, Andrew spread ice cream on the next one and gulped that down.
“We’re suspending all current operations and consolidating our forces on FITO,” he said through a mouthful.
“Dumbbell Randal called a meeting with Delta Squad. He met with them via teleconference. Had them all in the same place and he had one of them executed for poor performance. I think he sees himself as the ground commander of the upcoming battle. Bad choice if you want my opinion.”
“We have to take a walk,” said Frances. “Won’t take long.”
“I can’t leave my receivers.”
“We’ll be back in a few minutes. Take a bag of cookies with you.”
Andrew followed her down the hall to a back stairway and out into the expansive gardens in the rear of the building. He munched on the cookies and watched Frances’ back and hips as she strode along the path, past the arborvitaes that formed the back boundary of the garden. She’s put together pretty nice, he thought.
“Hey, Frances, what’s up?”
“This will be fine,” she said, and she pulled out a compact pistol.
A shot of fear charged through his gut. He knew that one of the squad leaders had just been murdered a few hours ago at the orders of another director. He also knew that his own performance could be called into question over all the failed operations under his supervision. He decided silence was his best course of action.
“Ever shot a handgun, Andrew?” Frances asked.
A long breath escaped from his lungs. “Nope,” he said.
“This is a compact semiautomatic pistol, a Smith and Wesson M&P in nine millimeter. The magazine holds eight, and with one in the chamber that gives you nine rounds before it’s out, got it?”
“Eight plus one is nine. Fairly straight forward,” he answered.
“You just point and pull the trigger. Now I have a sound suppressor attached while we practice, see this? It makes the gun a lot longer than it will be when you tuck it into your pants. First I’ll show you, then you’re going to do it yourself.”
Andrew watched. Frances pushed the M&P into the waistband of her jeans. She pulled her tee shirt over it to demonstrate how to conceal it. “My target is this tree here. You want to be at least this close to your target when you engage it.”
Frances smoothly lifted up her shirt with her left hand, drew the pistol, pointed it at the tree, and with this two-handed grip she pulled off four rounds. The report from the silencer was muted. Andrew noticed that the gun popped upwards after each shot, but not much.
“Look, when you are handling the gun, keep your trigger finger outside the trigger guard, like this. Even when you draw it from your pants, keep your finger outside. You don’t want an accidental discharge while it’s in your pants, do you?”
She handed him the gun. Andrew tucked it into his pants and let his tee shirt drop over it. “By the way,” he said, “why exactly are you giving me small arms training today?”
“Akebe’s going to try to kill you.”
“Oh,” he said, and he pulled the gun out and fired the five remaining rounds at the tree. Two of them hit it.
It took Andrew four magazines to gain enough proficiency to put all his rounds in the target. He unscrewed the silencer from the muzzle, slid a loaded magazine into the stock, and racked back the slide to insert a bullet into the chamber.
Frances said, “We must give Akebe the opportunity to attack you. Not just threaten you, but he has to raise his hand against you with a weapon. We believe he will be using a blade of some sort, sword or knife. I know this sounds risky, but you are younger and quicker and you will not be surprised. But you have to wait until he raises the knife before you shoot him. Can you do that?”
“Well,” Andrew said, “it’s not like I have much of a track record with armed combat, but if the guy is trying to kill me, I’ll shoot him.”
They made their way back through the garden.
Andrew said, “Hey, Frances, why do you want me alive and Akebe dead?”
Frances turned to face him. He felt her hand on his arm, her breath on his face.
“Don’t worry, Andrew, it’s not because I like you,” she said and smiled.
“Oh, good,” Andrew muttered. “We wouldn’t want that.”
Sandy wrapped up her operations briefing. “We expect some advanced warning of the enemy’s attack. The signal for you all to you to take your battle stations will be a text with the letters in all capitals: ASFTLAFG, for A Sword For The Lord And For Gabriella.
“We should have at least two weeks to prepare for their attack on our position, so Carlos will push you hard to get you ready. Most likely they’ll attack our decoy location on Cape Neddick before they move here to attack us.
“My dear family of warriors, I believe in you all, and more importantly, I believe in God. The battle belongs to the Lord. You are dismissed.”
The men, women, and youth filed out through the wide barn doors, chatting, patting each other on the back, and a few were laughing. Sandy could not detect a trace of fear in any of them. She was amazed.
“Well, Commander Granddaughter, what do you think?” asked Gabriella.
“Here’s what I know,” said Sandy, “we will make war with these devils. We will fight hard and how it comes out, well, only the Lord knows. And I know
that our family here at Cielavista will become a strong fighting force, prepared to make a stand against our attackers.”
“You see, my love,” said Gabriella as she reached up with her gnarly hand and touched Sandy’s cheek, “you are more than you know. So get some rest and tonight we will go to the rock and see what is impossible to see.”
At the kitchen table in the trailer, Henry studied the screen on his laptop.
“Okay, Tony, show me that video,” he said into his cellphone.
Tony had uploaded the security video from the Maine Stage Theater Supply Company. Only two customers walked into the store in that week, one male, one female. Tony played a short clip from each one.
“What did you get from face-recognition?” Henry asked.
“Nothing on the male, but you’re gonna like this,” Tony said. “The female was an agent with the CIA. Left the Agency six years ago, decent record, nothing distinguished, nothing really negative. Name, Wanda Springer. She resides in New Hampshire with no known place of employment. She changed her name to Carlene Wood.”
“Interesting,” said Henry. “Do you have a license plate number for her?”
“Yeah, it’s a Mass plate 440-D85. So what’s the story?” said Tony.
“Just call it ‘suspicious activity.’ How about contacting the police in York, Maine? Give them the plate number and ask them to keep an eye out for her without any face-to-face involvement. Keep it low priority. It will probably lead nowhere, okay?”
“Sure, I’ll give you a call tomorrow, Henry. How’s the fishing?”
“Divine,” said Henry.
“Does he know how absurd he looks?” said Romano Goldstein to Frances as Chairman Akebe Cheron entered the boardroom. “And why does he always have to make an entrance at our board meetings? Can’t he just show up and sit down like the rest of us?”
Romano surveyed the faces of the rest of the Directorate’s executive board. Andrew sat at a table separate against the wall with his laptop. Donald Snow and Olivia Kingston appeared as exasperated as he was, and Randal Sanford was just grinning as if he thought the whole thing was a circus act. Romano thought he might be right.
“Romano, he has no idea,” replied Frances. “I’m certain his image of himself is pure fantasy.”
Akebe had entered the board meeting strategically late, wearing a black turtleneck jersey, too-tight black jeans, and a black belt with silver studs. On his left hip was an eighteen-inch leather scabbard bearing a short sword with a silver basket around the grip. His jeans were tucked into black snakeskin boots with silver tips on the toes.
Akebe began his speech, pacing back and forth along the far wall. Romano placed a nervous hand on Frances’ forearm.
“Men and women of the Directorate,” Akebe said in a commanding voice, “our efforts to purify America has taken a new direction. Heretofore we’ve enjoyed vast success in our pruning operations. We’ve eliminated thousands of obstructionists who failed to follow our path to orderly living.”
Romano observed Akebe through the eyes of a psychoanalyst. He surmised that the source of Akebe’s dysfunctions evolved from years of traumatic abuse. Romano concluded that Akebe suffered from extreme delusional disorder. And in his present position as chair of the Directorate, that psychosis threatened the very existence of the nation.
“I am convinced we must execute our plan,” Romano whispered to Frances.
“Heretofore,” Akebe was saying,” we have completed our missions unimpeded. In the last year alone, we successfully carried out three hundred fifty-two attacks on the obstructionists. Most of them have gone unnoticed by the public, but others have received national and international coverage.”
Akebe paused and cast an angry gaze at the table of directors. “You have something to add, Doctor Goldstein?”
“Please, continue, Mr. Chairman,” Romano said.
“Well, thank you so much for giving me permission. Listen up, children. Things are going to go from ugly to repulsive in a few short weeks. I will lead you through the troubling events that lay before us, but you all must demonstrate absolute loyalty. Do you understand?”
Randal gave a loud sarcastic, “Yes, sir!” The rest simply nodded at Akebe.
Akebe went on, “Three hundred and fifty-two victories. We go back to our humble beginnings in 1984, when we experimented our techniques with our first slave, James Huberty, who successfully killed twenty-one in San Ysidro, California. Then on to our Jacksonville, Florida Operation in June of 1990 where ten obstructionists were removed, and a wonderful series of victories in Killeen, Iowa City, Olivehurst, San Francisco, Garden City, Jonesboro, Columbine, Atlanta, Fort Worth, Honolulu, all before the turn of the millennium.
“Then in the new millennium, we continued our march here in Massachusetts, the town of Wakefield. Remember Michael McDermott, one of your operations, Randal, if I recall?”
“Yes, sir,” from Randal.
“I needn’t go on,” Akebe said, but he did. “Meridian, Red Lake, Nickel Mines, Salt Lake City, Virginia Tech, Omaha, Binghamton, Fort Hood—again, Manchester, Aurora, Newtown, Boston, Washington, DC, Charleston, Roseburg, and Paris, France.
“The masterful work of our hands, ladies and gentlemen. And these represent only the operations that the media considered noteworthy enough to cover.
“Of course the genius of all our success has been our ability to conceal our organization’s involvement in any of these important actions. What other organization would be able to arrange such brilliant operations where even the killers operate under the impression that they were motivated by hatred or religious fervor?
“Do you all realize our privileged position in world history? What an enormous honor we hold, to serve our country and the world community in this way.”
Akebe paused. Romano scanned the board members’ faces trying to read them for any shock, guilt, or pride. Nothing.
He watched the four caterers wheel in the carts of pastries and beverages. They stood at the end of the hall by the serving counter.
High above the counter near the ceiling Romano noticed a long window, the audiovisual control room. It should have been unoccupied for this meeting, but Romano detected a face briefly in that window.
“With that introduction,” said Akebe, “all rise for the Directorate pledge.”
“We are the Directorate. We humbly accept our role as the overseers of the free world’s institutions, and where necessary we will carry out our duty to prune out those branches that hinder the healthy advancement of the American culture. Duty. Honor. Oversight. Always loyal to the Directorate.” And they returned to their seats.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“I thought you were going to take a rest this afternoon,” Gabriella said to Sandy.
“Something has come up and we have to go to the rock.”
The two women jumped down the rocky steps and sailed over the crevice to the flat shelf of grey-orange granite where the paranormal and spiritual signals coalesced into visions. The women held hands.
“What are we seeing, Nonina?”
“This young lady, Anna Stone, has been equipped as a spiritual transmitter. She is watching a meeting of the Directorate from the AV control booth above the conference room. Apparently the spirit has positioned her strategically so she can act as a human TV camera monitoring the Directorate’s activities and sending them to us.”
Sandy and Gabriella watched and listened to the action projected on the sky. A man in black with a sword hanging from a studded belt paced around the table. He was giving a review of their diabolical activities, stating them as patriotic victories. The five people sitting at the table were obviously exasperated with him.
“That’s the chairman of the Directorate, Akebe Cheron,” said Gabriella.
“Why do we need Anna Stone there? I thought we could see these types of events without needing a person nearby to transmit,” Sandy said.
“See that young man at the side table, their operations officer?
He takes all the commands of the Directorate and puts them into action. He has created a protective dome over the resort that blocks the energy radiating from their meeting. Having Anna there circumvents his countermeasures.”
“They’re all standing now,” said Sandy. “Listen.”
“We are the Directorate. We humbly accept our role as the overseers of the free world’s institutions, and where necessary we will carry out our duty to prune out those branches that hinder the healthy advancement of the American culture. Duty. Honor. Oversight. Always loyal to the Directorate.”
“My God,” said Sandy, “They think they’re involved in a righteous cause. How perverted.”
Gabriella said, “Two of those caterers are angels from our platoon.”
“Really, why did you send them?”
“I didn’t. Their Boss did.”
“Which ones are angels?” said Sandy.
“Oh, come now, Sandy you can tell. It’s Thomas and Joe.”
Sandy studied the video. “Ah, yes the incredibly handsome ones. You would think they would disguised themselves a little better.” She smiled.
Gabriella and Sandy noticed both angels glance upwards at the same time. The women saw what they were looking at. It was a grayish serpentlike form slithering over Akebe’s head.
“Do you know what that is?” said Sandy.
“Ogoun, the demon that controls Akebe’s mind. It’s one of Satan’s low-level minions. Stupid, really. It lords over Voodoo ceremonies.”
“Akebe is Haitian, right? So that’s where he may have adopted the Voodoo religion.”
“Well, he’s Nigerian,” said Gabriella, “but he’s been in Haiti for many years. He could have fallen under Ogoun’s power either place. Now we know the real mastermind behind the Directorate’s horrific plans.”
The meeting on Gabriella’s sky-screen proceeded. Akebe Cheron addressed the board. “Ladies and gentlemen of the Directorate, I have asked Andrew, our operations officer, to join us at this special board meeting to recognize him for his years of faithful service. You all know that with his ingenious methods he is able to orchestrate our orders without any assistance. Andrew, would you come forward please.”
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