Black Sunrise

by Brett Godfrey

  “With respect, sir, our power stems from our knowledge of his twisted urges and his compromised position. This has been our plan for some time. Understanding his aberrations, his destructive needs, will provide insight into the workings of his mind. From this we aim toward total control. It is possible we could make further use of this man. He could become a valuable asset. He has vast scientific knowledge of biological weaponry.”

  “Smuggle him out of the country?”

  “That is what I propose.”

  There was a hiss on the line. Was it static, or Young exhaling in disgust?

  “If we succeed, the rewards are great indeed. For all of us. The funding at your disposal should be evidence of that. But if you lose control of this situation, it will be very bad.”

  “Yes,” Kim acknowledged. “Though it is never a gamble to do one’s duty.”

  “Of course, Kim. For now, proceed as you propose, but be ready to kill the women and his associate and bring the scientist to me on a moment’s notice. We have no way of knowing what he may have said in their presence, particularly after you approached him.”

  Before Kim could seek clarification of his decision-making authority or logistics, the connection dropped.

  The mountain road rolled by like a ribbon on a reel, weaving drunkenly back and forth. Eventually, the brutal hail softened to heavy rain, and the wind subsided. Kim replayed the conversation in his mind. He realized his mission was worse than urgent: it was desperate. A large-scale operation was obviously in the works, and the virus was central to its success.

  While the exalted one distracted the world with his missiles, he was preparing for a surprise invasion of the South.

  Time was of the essence, so huge risk was unavoidable.

  Everything rested on Beeman.

  Chapter 28

  Antonio paced back and forth across the linoleum floor of the small convenience store that served as a drop-off point for Steamboat’s municipal bus line, which he’d ridden here from the bus station to rendezvous with Beeman. The store, called Kum & Go, was a combined grocery store and gas station. The name echoed over and over in his mind like a song that wouldn’t go away, accompanied by bizarre alternating visions: long-awaited erotic rampages and ruinous disasters. One moment he cultivated arousing images of shimmering, shapely female flesh; the next he pictured the police arresting and pushing him head-down into a squad car with his hands cuffed behind him. He’d recited his Miranda rights in his head again and again during the slow, endless bus ride up from Denver. He had been living in a hellish heaven of excitement, anticipation, self-exhalation and terror for so many days now that he couldn’t remember what it felt like not to have his heart forcefully massaging his chest from inside.

  He looked at his watch yet again. His bus from Denver had been an hour late on arrival. He’d been waiting at the Kum & Go for nearly two hours more, so Beeman was three hours late. Antonio had repeatedly called the cabin and Beeman’s cell; neither number had picked up. He’d asked the counter clerk—an elderly woman with a sloppy lipstick smile painted over her onionskin lips—if anyone had asked about the bus being late. The old bat had giggled fiendishly and shaken her head at the silliness of his question. “Hon, the bus is always late.”

  Antonio’s anxiety was ratcheting upward.

  It was raining hard outside. Had the weather caused Beeman trouble? What if he’d been in an accident? The thought sent an icy chill through Antonio. Police responded to accidents. The Toyota and the cabin were both registered in Beeman’s name. If they’d found Beeman unconscious or dead in Antonio’s car, the natural course of inquiry would lead to the cabin and the girls—who could easily identify Antonio as one of their abductors—leading in turn to years upon years in prison.

  Where the fuck was Beeman?

  Kum & Go, man. Come and let’s go, so I can go and come. He chuckled nervously, more of a hyena whine than a laugh. He bought a bag of Doritos and a Pepsi. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to an attorney. He shoveled chips into his mouth and washed them down with Pepsi; then he let out a great belch that caught the attention of the clown-faced biddy at the register.

  He’d feel better when he was with Beeman; he always felt calmer and more confident when they were together. He didn’t know why.

  He thought of hitchhiking to the cabin but realized that it would be impossible; few traveled the last ten miles to the place. He just had to wait. If the police were already looking for him, they would be much more likely to find him at the cabin than at this convenience store. He was safer here.

  But what if Beeman never showed?

  He couldn’t go back to Denver without checking on the women. If they escaped, he’d be completely fucked. That thought made him cringe, for it came dangerously close to forcing him to face the truth, which was that they would eventually have to kill the girls. Sooner or later, it would come to that, wouldn’t it? He’d always known it, but he pushed the thought away, focusing only on the pleasure he would get before it came to that. Besides, Beeman would guide him through it. Beeman knew what was best.

  Antonio tried to ease his sense of dread by trying to turn his thoughts back to his fantasies instead of prison.

  He’d definitely start with the brunette. Her tits were so totally perfect! She had a full, sensuous mouth, with dick-sucking lips that looked like little pink pillows and an hourglass figure. Delicious hips and legs. She was small, diminutive, with a submissive aura that really turned him on. On the other hand, there was something about the taller blonde that made him feel cheesy, guilty. It was the way she looked at him, silently chiding him, as if to appeal to his chivalrous nature, urging him to come to his senses. As if to say, you know better.

  She made him uneasy rather than horny.

  What he had in mind was anything but chivalrous, so he would start with the brunette. The one he called Kitten. Breaking her to his will would be awesome. If she became his total slave, maybe he could keep her and not have to kill her.

  He could restrain himself no more. He’d try the phone again. As he reached for his cell, a hand came down on his shoulder, and time stopped. A thousand years seemed to pass in less than a second, and the only thought in Antonio’s mind during that endless epoch was that he had to piss. It had to be a cop. He’d be under arrest in seconds.

  At last, his body obeyed him, and he slowly turned.

  It was Beeman.

  Antonio let out a long breath. “Jesus fucking Christ all fucking mighty!” It came out as a whimper. Beeman nodded reassuringly. Antonio noticed two streaks of dried blood on the front of Beeman’s shirt. Beeman didn’t seem to realize they were there. If he had, he’d have changed his shirt before going out in public.

  Blood? What the fuck?

  Noticing Antonio’s eyes on his chest, Beeman looked down at his shirt and then shrugged, as though accepting some secret irony. “Nothing to worry about.” He turned and strode out of the store.

  Antonio followed him to the car and got in on the passenger side. “Where the fuck have you been? Why is there blood on your shirt?”

  Beeman calmly put the car in gear and pulled away from the store, turning onto the highway. Antonio did not appear to notice the abrasions on Beeman’s wrists.

  “We have quite an evening ahead of us, my friend.”

  This did not placate Antonio. “You didn’t answer my question. Why were you so late? Why do you have fucking blood on your shirt?”

  “Don’t worry. Nothing is amiss. I kept my promise. I did not start without you. I saved them for you. You will be first, as we agreed.”

  “Did you fight with them?”

  “You might say that. They’re under control. Trust me. I have the whole evening planned. You’re going to find it deeply satisfying to learn who you really are.”

  Antonio snorted. “But what kept you so long?”

  “The rain.” Beeman would say no more.

  An
tonio’s abdominal muscles were quivering. Something just wasn’t right. Beeman seemed too calm, as if he were forcing it. Then it hit him.

  “Did you take something?”

  Beeman looked at him sheepishly. “You mean a drug.” Antonio could hear a note of guilt in his voice. “Afraid so. Just a little something to loosen me up.”

  Relief crept through Antonio. “You okay to drive?”

  “Of course. As I said, it was just a little something from the Orient to lower my inhibitions.”

  “You got any more?”

  “Will you need it?”

  This bruised Antonio’s pride. “Maybe, but I want to be in the moment. Don’t want to spoil the experience. Natural is better, right?”

  Beeman gave him that deadly little grin again. “You remember the movie Pretty Woman? It’s like that. This is going to be what you call a sure thing.”

  An awkward laugh escaped Antonio’s throat.

  Beeman chuckled with him.

  Two hours later Antonio was sitting at the kitchen table watching as Beeman spread out a linen tablecloth and set three places. A fat scented candle burned in the center of the table. Soft jazz played: “My Funny Valentine.” Antonio was wearing a borrowed sport jacket over his tee shirt and jeans. Adrenaline surged as he heard footsteps coming down the stairway from the bedroom on the second floor.

  He heard Beeman speaking softly from just beyond the doorway. “Open your eyes, Kitten, or this will be a blind date that never ends. Remember my grapefruit spoon.”

  Sighing with relief, Antonio finished his drink and wiped his moist palms on his jeans. From around the corner, the brunette emerged, and Antonio’s breath caught. She stood before him wearing a spotless white dress and cream-colored stiletto heels. Her hair had been washed and styled. She wore light makeup, with lots of eye shadow. Her lipstick was a deep rouge, enhancing the shape of her sexy mouth.

  “Jesus,” Antonio whispered. “She looks good enough to eat.”

  “You may sit, Kitten,” Beeman intoned as he followed her into the kitchen. He had changed into a chalk-colored suit, with a dark green bowtie and shiny loafers.

  “There.” Beeman pointed to the chair beside Antonio’s; she would be sitting between them in her luscious dress that would soon be gone. Whatever happened, Antonio decided, she would keep her nasty high heel pumps on.

  Wordlessly, she stepped across the hardwood floor and sat demurely at the table, her chin down slightly.

  Antonio’s mind was spinning. How had Beeman managed to pull this off?

  Before seating himself, Beeman put a gentle hand on Antonio’s shoulder. Antonio remembered how startled he had been at the Kum & Go when Beeman had done the same thing.

  Beeman moved to the sink and uncorked a bottle of Woodford Reserve. “Would you care for another small shot, my friend?”

  Antonio gulped to clear his throat.

  “Yeah, thanks,” he croaked.

  Chapter 29

  The Palace Arms was one of Denver’s oldest and finest restaurants, located in the ancient and lavish Brown Palace hotel, built in 1892 in the heart of downtown. Moguls of industry and finance, professional sports stars and even several American presidents frequented the wedge-shaped building. The accoutrements included beautiful Napoleonic artifacts. The cuisine was impeccable and priced accordingly. The smell of lilacs and well-oiled leather drifted in the air with faint harp music and light banter.

  Seated at a quiet table were Mark and Janet Jensen, Robert Sand, Dave Thomas and Albert Brecht. Brecht and the Jensens were staying in the hotel, occupying two top-floor suites sealed behind glass brick, unlike rooms on all the lower floors, which opened to a cavernous atrium looking down on the lavishly appointed lobby. Dwight Eisenhower had occupied the top-floor suites during the summer of 1955, when he’d endured a long period of illness. Many guests reported that it felt like sleeping in the White House; the décor was the same, as was the service. While the circumstances were not conducive to the enjoyment of luxury, the pleasant surroundings provided a welcome respite and the illusion of normalcy.

  After a long and stressful day, Mark and Janet had reluctantly agreed to Brecht’s suggestion that they dine in elegance and relax briefly, so they could decompress while conversing in quiet privacy at a relatively isolated table in the far corner of the restaurant. Brecht assured them the rest of the team was still at work.

  Brecht wore his habitual black three-piece suit. “I’m sure you must have noticed the scar by now,” he said, touching the spot behind his right ear. Jensen noticed a tremor in his hand. “From a bullet,” Brecht continued. “Your father dug it out of my skull in the basement of a building in Moscow. It was 1956—the year after Eisenhower stayed at this hotel. I visited him often in those days, so I have bittersweet memories of this place. Then the next year I nearly died. Your father saved my life, at great personal peril. Did he ever tell you the story?”

  “No,” Jensen conceded. “My father was very strict about keeping other people’s medical details to himself, and I have the feeling this particular event was something they warned him not to discuss.”

  Brecht regarded Mark for a moment, his chin lifting slightly. “There was far more to this secret than my medical privacy. The incident was highly classified, a matter of national security. The record remains sealed to this day.”

  Sand said, “Cold War espionage.”

  Brecht canted his head, twitching his cottony eyebrows.

  A waiter hovered just out of earshot, politely awaiting a signal to approach. Brecht summoned him with a toss of his hand. At length, the waiter finished describing various entrées and took their orders while his second refilled water glasses with Pellegrino from a large green bottle he stored in an ice-filled decanter on a small stand beside the table. Once the waiter and his helper were gone, Brecht muttered something about waiters and spooks.

  Jensen took a small sip of single malt from a heavy crystal tumbler. “Can you tell us about it, Albert?”

  Brecht nodded. “You should know what happened. It is part of your family history, Mark, ancient history though it is.” Reaching into his jacket, Brecht withdrew a large cigar and, after rolling it between his fingers for a few silent seconds, placed it on the tablecloth before him. Jensen knew he longed to light it but would not. He told himself that after they recovered Christie and Jackie safe and alive, they would smoke a pair of Cubans together.

  “Different days then,” Brecht said. “No spy satellites, no cell phones. No supercomputers to crack codes. None of the gadgets we have today. We gathered our intelligence the old-fashioned way. We recruited spies, co-opting men and women with access to sensitive information. We collected the secrets we stole for our analysts from dead drops that made their way to Washington in diplomatic pouches. The analysts first decrypted some of it aboard naval vessels or in basements in London. British and American intelligence agencies worked a bit more intimately in those days—the bond forged in the war was still fresh. The practicalities of geography meant a lot more back then. The Brits were stronger than they are now. We needed them.”

  Janet cut in with a question. “The British are still our allies though, aren’t they?”

  Brecht chuckled. “Yes, certainly, Janet. But the world situation is far more complicated now. Russia is an ally one day and an enemy the next. Putin supports some of our military efforts and yet threatens us with nuclear cruise missiles that can hit any spot on the globe. We play our enemies and our allies as pawns.”

  “How so? With the fall of the Iron Curtain, Russia is becoming a democracy. The Cold War is over. We are the only true superpower, aren’t we? It should be simpler, not more complicated.”

  Brecht picked up his cigar and rolled it absently between his crooked fingers. “The US is no longer the dominant power in the world, Janet. China and India have larger armies, and China’s navy is much larger than any other, with technology every bit the equal of our own—if not superior. Many nations have nuclear weapons, includ
ing South Africa, Israel, India, Pakistan, North Korea and soon Iran will as well, despite the best efforts of the Mossad, MI6 and the CIA. Our golden gates are closed now. The Statue of Liberty is merely a historic artifact. We live in a very unstable world. Terrorists abound and often do not know what they are fighting for or who controls them. Bin Laden is dead; Al-Qaeda has gone out of style. ISIS is on the way out, only to be replaced by dozens of terrorist spoors.

  “In the late fifties, we considered a nation a superpower if it presented a nuclear threat. Given the size and geography of our country, situated between ally nations that span an entire hemisphere, and with the strength of our military, we believed that only through strategic nuclear bombardment could anyone overcome us. We deemed a nation with that ability a superpower, not on the strength of its economy, but because it was a threat to us, and we considered ourselves a ‘superpower,’ a word we coined for ourselves out of pure hubris. Only a nation that could vaporize cities qualified for that title.

  “Today, if we apply the definitions and thinking of that era, practically every nation is a superpower. A bearded Muslim huddling in a cave can bring down skyscrapers in the heart of New York City. Our electronic infrastructure is the life support of all commerce and communication and controls every aspect of our lives. We use the internet to turn on our lights and lock our doors, yet the World Wide Web is vulnerable to crippling attacks launched from internet cafes in Buenos Aires, the Sahara or anywhere else. Computer viruses self-replicate. A teenager with an iPad could theoretically crush our stock markets. We are vulnerable in ways we never dreamed of during the Cold War, which ironically is what spawned the same internet that now leaves us so vulnerable to cyberattack. The political fragmentation of various groups hostile to our interests makes monitoring them all and predicting their actions a nightmare. In fact—oh, listen to me. I’m sorry to prattle on so.”