by J. C. Fields
“I see your point.”
Nodding, Brutka walked further down the passage as they navigated the one and a half miles of trails within the WOW museum and aquarium.
“While I appreciate your invitation to visit what you call the Ozarks, I question the motive. Nothing is free, Kruger.”
He pronounced the name with an emphasis on the last syllable, turning the ‘e’ into a hard ‘a’.
“No, it isn’t.”
Brutka stopped and read another plaque. “I love learning about this vast country of yours. Its history is colorful.” He paused and turned to stare at Kruger. “So, why was I invited?”
“I thought I explained it when we spoke on the phone.”
“You might have. I stopped listening when you said someone else would pay for my trip.”
Kruger chuckled. “As an Interpol Agent, we would like for you to join an international task force.”
“International?”
Nodding, Kruger gave him a grin. “The United States and Ukraine.”
Brutka laughed out loud as other visitors of the museum gave him a strange look.
“Now you have my attention. What is this task force supposed to do?”
“Find out how deep Dmitri Orlov has penetrated the US government and either put him behind bars or, you know…”
Another laugh. Brutka slapped Kruger on the back.
“Nothing would make me happier. But first, I want to immerse myself in this World of Wildlife.”
***
Joseph stood on the front deck of his home in rural Christian County watching a dark gray GMC Denali crunch its way over the long gravel driveway. He was glad these two individuals arrived first for the meeting. They were the apex of his team, retired Special Forces Major Benedict “Sandy” Knoll and retired Seal Team Six operator Jimmie Gibbs. Both were now FBI agents attached to a Rapid Response Team on loan to Special Agent Sean Kruger.
He raised a hand in greeting as the Denali parked behind his Land Rover in the circle drive. Weariness washed over him as he steeled himself to the task ahead. After fifty years in the field running covert operations for four presidents, Joseph Kincaid was ready to put his own priorities ahead of making sacrifices for the country. There was a reason for spending more time here at his remote log home. He could get away from the chaos of the outside world.
The driver of the Denali stepped out and raised a hand to return Joseph’s greeting. He was a large man with bulging biceps, stretching the sleeves of an untucked black polo shirt that hung over faded blue jeans. Dark blond hair cut short displayed the beginnings of gray streaks above his ears. His handsome weathered face was permanently tanned from too many tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan. Mirrored Ray-Ban sunglasses shielded the gray-blue eyes from the afternoon sun. This was Sandy Knoll, a long-time friend and colleague of Joseph.
The smaller man stepped out of the passenger side of the vehicle. While Knoll was built like a body builder, Jimmie Gibbs’ swimmer physique provided a sharp contrast to Knoll’s bulk. Swimming was a passion for Gibbs and he still held several Seal Team records for endurance and distance.
After retiring from Seal Team Six, he allowed his black hair to grow long and kept it in a ponytail extending past his shoulder blades. As a native Southern Californian, his usual dress was surfer casual, cargo shorts, linen shirt and sandals. Today was no exception. Blue eyes rounded out his handsome features and contributed to the tales of his womanizing, which he claimed was more urban-legend than reality. Knoll prized Jimmie’s poise and level-headedness during missions, especially when events turned sour for the team. A broad smile appeared on the face of the smaller man.
Joseph took a deep breath. Seeing these two men helped erase some of the tension he felt about his current task.
As the two ex-Special Forces men approached the steps leading to Joseph’s house, Knoll spoke in his gravelly voice.
“Good to see you again, sir.”
“Good to see you, too, Major Knoll.”
Gibbs stepped onto the deck and shook Joseph’s hand and said, “Heard a rumor you and Mary tied the knot in New Zealand. Any truth to it, sir?”
Joseph just smiled and nodded once.
“Well, congratulations, sir.”
“Thank you, Jimmie.” He paused briefly. “Gentlemen, we have a lot to discuss. Come on in.”
***
Joseph stood behind the breakfast bar and poured another cup of coffee as he concluded his summary of Kruger’s investigation. Jimmie Gibbs pursed his lips as he stirred his own cup. He stared at the dark liquid as his spoon created a whirlpool. Sandy Knoll stood at the sliding glass door leading to Joseph’s back deck, his hands behind his back as he watched a hawk soar above the tree line behind the house. Silence permeated the room as each man processed the task ahead of them.
Gibbs was first to speak. “What’s the official story about the vice president’s suicide?”
“Depends on who you talk to.” Joseph sipped his coffee, placed it on the breakfast bar and crossed his arms over his chest. “The president’s press secretary made a comment yesterday about Pittman’s deteriorating health. No one’s taking it seriously.”
Gibbs nodded.
“Someone needs to go to Europe, don’t they?” Knoll asked. “Jimmie’s fluent in German and Russian, he’d be the perfect choice.”
Smiling, Joseph shook his head. “It might not be necessary.”
Knoll tilted his head. “Oh?”
“Sean is asking Sergey Brutka.”
Gibbs asked, “Who’s he?”
“He’s with Interpol. I had never met him until yesterday. Sean likes him and trusts him.”
“What else does he bring to the party?” Knoll asked.
“Years of investigating Dmitri Orlov’s organization.”
Frowning, Gibbs stared at Joseph. “Years?”
His answer was a nod.
***
“When did you decide to buy a Jeep Wrangler? Thought you only liked inconspicuous vehicles.”
JR glanced at his friend as he steered the new Jeep over the rutted access road to Joseph’s property.
“The same day the Camry got stuck and cost me two hundred dollars to have it towed out of here. Not to mention what it was going to cost to have it repaired. Besides, everybody seems to have a Wrangler these days. Last week I was at a stop light and the guy next to me was in a red one, the woman behind me had a four-door gray one. So, it is inconspicuous.”
Kruger laughed as he held on to the grab-bar above the front passenger door. He turned in his seat and spoke to the passenger in the back.
“What do you think of rural Missouri, Sergey?”
Brutka’s face displayed a slight smile as he stared out the passenger window in the back seat. “Makes me homesick.”
“Really?”
“Yes, very similar to where I grew up. We have real mountains, but the trees are the same.”
“Huh. Didn’t know that.”
“You should visit my country, Sean Kruger. You would enjoy it.”
“I hope to someday.”
JR parked the Jeep behind Knoll’s Denali and set the parking brake.
“Guess Sandy and Jimmie are here.” He turned to Kruger. “Does Sandy drive anything other than a Denali?”
“Not if he can help it. He told me one time it’s the only vehicle he feels safe in, other than a Humvee.”
Smiling, JR climbed out of the Jeep and waited for his two passengers to exit. Once they were out, they walked toward the front deck where Joseph stood, a grim expression clouding his face.
Kruger immediately knew something was wrong.
“What’s wrong, Joseph?”
“You haven’t heard, have you?”
Chapter 10
Washington, D.C.
Bright lights and swirling colors greeted Richard as he opened the kitchen door leading to the back-yard of his childhood home. He could hear his mother and father arguing about how to stretch their paychec
ks until the end of the month. He looked back and saw himself, crying, sitting at the kitchen table across from them. He was hungry. He was always hungry growing up.
Glancing at his image in the back-door window, he saw a seventy-two-year-old man staring back. The concept of being old and looking back on himself as a nine-year-old child confused him. A young teenage girl walked through the kitchen and kissed him on the cheek. It was Linda, his girlfriend when he was a sophomore in high school and the first girl he ever kissed. His eyes followed her as she walked out of the door and disappeared into the swirling colors.
Still standing at the back door, he turned and was suddenly in the middle of his small college dorm room. Jennifer, the woman to whom he lost his virginity, stood next to him smiling and naked. She gave him a hug and whispered in his ear.
“You should have stayed with me.”
As he reached for her, the image dissolved as the swirling lights engulfed him.
He emerged inside a hospital room were his wife handed him their newborn daughter. He turned and lowered the now two-year-old girl into a coffin. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he looked up and saw his seventeen-year-old son score the winning touchdown at his senior homecoming game. He started to clap, but the scene dissolved into standing on the Capitol steps facing a tall man dressed in a black robe, an oversized dark hood obscuring his face.
The bony hand of the figure offered him a Bible to hold. He then told Bryant to raise his right hand to recite the words for his oath of office as President. Before he could say the words, his knees buckled as a searing pain overwhelmed him.
President Richard Bryant woke suddenly from the images of his dream. An agonizing headache engulfed him as he sat up. Bile rose to the back of his throat, causing a gag reaction. His skin felt clammy and sweat dripped from his forehead. A crushing weight on his chest brought his right hand up to cover his heart as the first twinge of fear crept into the back of his mind.
On the verge of panic, a feeling foreign to his psyche, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. A severe pain shot down his left arm as he reached for the phone on his nightstand with his right. Just as he raised the handset to his ear, blackness engulfed him as his now-unconscious body collapsed onto the bed.
The sound of the First Lady screaming reached the ears of the Secret Service agent sitting outside the First Couple’s bedroom door. He rushed into the room without hesitation.
***
Chief of Staff Carl Wood took a deep breath as he watched the resident EMTs work on the President of the United States with the White House crash cart. Both looked grim as they attended to the unconscious president. He heard one whisper to the other, “I’m not getting a pulse, are you?”
His companion replied with only a shake of the head.
“Let’s get him to Walter Reed.”
“Call them and tell them we are 10-45C with POTUS. Use your cell phone, not the radio.”
“Got it.”
Wood watched as they wheeled the gurney out of the bedroom and down the hall toward the elevator. His next duty involved making a call on a secure line to the Vice President and then the leaders of the House and Senate, calls he knew would be some of the last duties he performed as President Bryant’s Chief of Staff.
Griffin answered on the fourth ring, his voice groggy with sleep.
“This is Roy.”
“Mr. Vice President, this is Carl Wood.”
“Yes, Carl.” Griffin paused, suddenly fully awake. Receiving a call from the President’s Chief of Staff at 4:36 a.m. could only mean one thing. Something bad occurred somewhere in the world. “How can I help you this morning?”
“Uh…” He hesitated before continuing. “Uh—sir, the President had an episode this morning and we need you to come to the White House immediately.”
“What kind of episode, Mr. Wood?”
“Medical.”
Griffin closed his eyes. “How bad?”
“We don’t know, sir. But I think it would be a good idea for you get here as fast as possible.”
“I’m on my way.”
Cheryl Griffin rolled over in bed, leaned up on one elbow and placed a hand on Roy’s back as he sat with his hand still holding the receiver.
“What’s the matter, Roy?”
“Don’t know. The president’s had a medical episode. From the tone of Carl’s voice, it doesn’t sound good. I have to get to the White House immediately.”
She sighed, lay back down and closed her eyes. “Great. Just—great.”
Griffin forced a smile. “He’ll be fine, Cheryl. They are always overly cautious with the president.”
He did not receive a reply.
***
At 6:03 a.m., Washington time, Roy Griffin was sworn in as President of the United States by Chief Justice Simon Becker in the Oval Office. Richard Bryant had been pronounced dead on arrival at Walter Reed Hospital, having suffered a massive heart attack. An autopsy would later discover a ruptured aortic aneurysm caused massive bleeding and a stroke at the same time. President Bryant was technically dead before he fell back on his bed. The White House Physician would later be dismissed after he was charged with neglect and incompetence.
A shocked nation heard the news of Bryant’s death at 6:43 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time and by 6:57 a.m., still pictures of the solemn swearing-in ceremony of the new president were released by the White House. By 7:03, all the cable and internet news services were falling over themselves as they rushed reporters and staff to the White House to cover developing events and an official announcement from newly sworn in President Roy Griffin at 8:00. Washington was in a dither, enemies of the deceased president began plotting, supporters grieved, conspiracy mongers spun their theories and indifferent individuals remained indifferent. The rest of the country took a collective deep breath and wondered, “Oh, good grief, now what?”
***
Kruger silently watched the CNN talking heads summarize the events of the morning for the fifth time since he started watching. JR stood next to him and sipped a mug of coffee. Joseph watched both of them from behind the breakfast bar as he made another pot of coffee. Gibbs stood off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest, while Knoll talked to Brutka on the back deck.
Glancing away from the TV, Kruger looked at Joseph. “I’m not sure if we should congratulate Roy or feel sorry for him.”
Joseph nodded. “I was wondering the same thing. It’s a good thing for the country, but…”
“Think this has something to do with what we’ve been asked to investigate?” All eyes turned to stare at Gibbs as he watched the TV.
Kruger responded first. “Good question, Jimmie. I certainly hope not.”
JR returned his attention to the events on the TV. After a few moments, he said, “Guess we need to get busy.” He looked up at Joseph and Kruger and added, “Don’t we?”
***
After a hectic day, Roy Griffin and his wife returned to Number One Observatory Circle late. It would remain their residence until President Bryant’s widow could be moved out. Griffin demanded she be given time to grieve before she was, for lack of a better term, evicted and hustled out the door.
As they were preparing for bed, Cheryl walked up to her husband, placed her arms around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder.
“Roy?”
He returned the embrace and leaned his head on hers. “Yes?”
“What now?”
“Our life has forever been changed.”
“I know. That’s what scares me. I liked where we were before you became the Vice President and now…”
“We have a huge opportunity to help this country, Cheryl.”
“What if it doesn’t want the help?”
He raised his head and frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What if the dysfunctions are so engrained no one can fix it?”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“You said it yourself when you became a congressman that th
is town lacked a soul.”
“It was a figure of speech.”
“Yeah, but you did say it.”
Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly. “I know.”
“What about Carl Wood?”
“I don’t care for him. But, for now, he’ll stay on as my Chief of Staff until I can find a new one. At least he has the experience I need right now.”
“Keep him at a distance, Roy.”
“I will.”
“What about the Cabinet?”
“Every single one of them offered their resignation today. I didn’t accept any. Yet.”
They were both silent as the embrace continued.
“I need someone outside this town who can give me a clear vision of what’s going on. Not someone whose judgement is clouded by how to get to the next sound bite on Fox, MSNBC or CNN.”
“We were at his house a week ago.”
Griffin was silent for a few moments.
“Yes, he’d be perfect.”
She raised her head and looked him in the eyes. “Would he do it?”
“Don’t know. Won’t hurt to ask.”
Chapter 11
Paris, France
Two Days Later
“What do we know about this Roy Griffin?”
Dmitri Orlov stood with his back to his guest as he stared out the window of his office, his hands clasped behind him. His gaze fixed on a tourist boat traveling northwest on the River Seine past Notre-Dame Cathedral.
Boris Volkov stood in front of Orlov’s desk and read from the screen of an iPad in his hand.
“He’s from northern California. Law degree, served as a prosecutor for a few years in San Francisco, then started an internet company, sold it, invested the money and now he’s rich. Started out as a congressman in the House of Representatives, elected to the Senate in a special election and when Pittman killed himself, well, you know what happened.”