The Reluctant Assassin Box Set

by Lee Jackson

Burly chuckled. “Lord help me for choosing the wrong words. I already apologized for that. Do you still want your pound of flesh?”

  Atcho relaxed a bit. “No, but that policy had better change, or it’s going to create the world we all die in together.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “Get my family to a safe place, and then figure out how to get Klaus. We poked a sleeping tiger in Sudan, and he’s mad as hell. He’s coming. I can feel it.”

  “You don’t think West Point is safe enough? By now, the superintendent has been alerted and will augment security. With the general terror threat elevated, that would happen anyway. There’s a quiet alert going out. I’ll speak with Dude and O’Brian again, and I’m sure they’ll line up behind providing greater security for you.”

  Atcho scoffed. “For how long and to what degree? I’m not leaving my family’s fate in their hands. My son-in-law will arrive home the day after tomorrow. We’ll figure out what to do with Sofia, Isabel, and the kids. I’ll get Rafael to put protection around the extended family, and Ivan can increase security around the home and our manufacturing plant. In Texas, we can still protect our property with guns, and those will be combat veterans pulling watch. If the country makes it through, so will we.

  “Tell Dude not to get in my way. I won’t do anything illegal unless I have to, but I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my family, and I won’t apologize for it. The government might not do its job, but I’ll do mine.”

  They reached the parking garage and the point where they would part ways. Atcho paused. “I appreciate you, Burly, I really do. You’ve always been there for Sofia and me. Sorry I got hot under the collar.”

  Burly grabbed Atcho in a bear hug. “No need to apologize. We’ve been through lots of crap together. We’ll get to the end of this. Anything I can do?”

  Atcho thought for a moment. “Put me in touch with O’Brian. I want to know what he knows. Tell him I’ll fly to Chicago if that’s what it takes.”

  “I can do that. Mind if I tag along?”

  Atcho smiled. “If you can get us there tomorrow, I’ll buy the ticket.”

  34

  Chicago

  January 25, 1993

  The next day

  “I’m happy to meet you in person, Atcho,” Tom O’Brian said, and then turned to the other man standing before him. “Should I call you Burly?”

  “Might as well.” Burly chuckled. “That’s the name Atcho hung on me in the swamps of Cuba.”

  “I want to hear the story,” O’Brian said. He was a tall man with a dark complexion, heavy facial features, and a receding hairline. His manner contrasted with his clothes: he was brusque, albeit courteous, though dressed immaculately in an expensive Italian suit with a pocket kerchief and matching tie, and perfectly coordinated soft leather shoes. “Come in. Sit down.”

  They were at the door of the special agent’s office at the FBI Chicago field headquarters on Roosevelt Road. They crossed to a seating area with a couch and two leather chairs and sat down.

  “Dude filled me in on the details of your personal situation,” O’Brian told Atcho. His brow furrowed. “You rode him hard yesterday.” He chuckled. “Not that he didn’t deserve it. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I want to know what you know,” Atcho replied. “Why are you met with such stiff opposition inside the FBI?”

  O’Brian bobbed his head while considering how best to answer. “My bosses don’t want to hear from me on the subject of terrorism mainly because our hands are already full, there’s a wide ocean between us and where most of the bad guys hang out, and the CIA and department of defense are responsible for what’s beyond our shores and borders. Our job is solving crimes already committed inside our borders. Once the terrorists act within our country, it becomes a crime and we investigate.

  “I’ve been making the case that terrorists aren’t just spies. They’re fighters: they infiltrate, they don’t wear uniforms, and they don’t discriminate between civilians and military or police forces. To them, every man, woman, and child is a combatant.” Passion rose in his voice as he spoke.

  “I’ve been agitating to get ready for terrorism in the US because I think it’s coming,” he said. “The powers that be put me in Chicago to shut me up. They’d probably get rid of me if they could, but I’m the guy who broke that Tylenol case—you know, the one where this jerk wanted to off his wife, so he put Tylenol laced with cyanide in bottles and planted them on pharmacy shelves. He killed several people just so his wife would be among the dead, and since the victims got the pills from a pharmacy, he figured the investigators wouldn’t trace the case back to him. Well, we did, and forever after, people are stuck wrestling with almost impenetrable plastic wrappers to get at their pills.”

  He smirked. “That’s heinous. Anyway, that case protects me. Can you imagine the headlines if I’m fired?” He drew an imaginary banner in the air. “‘FBI Sacks Agent Who Cracked Tylenol Case.’ I’d get more attention and then maybe my ideas on terrorism would get out. That might be great in the short run. More people would hear about them, but the FBI would be embarrassed, and then I’d fade, and no one would listen to me.” He furrowed his brow, winked, and wagged a finger in the air. “But mark my words, the terrorists are coming. They’ll make an entrance in a big way, and I can do more good by staying in the FBI than I can if I leave it.” He heaved a sigh. “Besides, I like my job too much.”

  He sat back in his chair. “Does that answer your question?”

  Atcho leaned forward. “Something got you started thinking that terrorists are coming this way. What was it? I need to know everything you know on the subject.”

  O’Brian laughed. “That’s precious little. I didn’t say I knew a lot. I said I’ve been stewing that we don’t know enough, and we’d better get up to speed before the threat becomes a tragedy.

  “Look, those guys in the Middle East hate us. They hate us because we support Israel and because we don’t embrace Islam. We’re infidels—nonbelievers. To them, that’s a sin punishable by death. This guy Klaus hates you because you killed his brother, but he’d hate you anyway.”

  He looked at Burly. “Is the New York office helping out with security?”

  Burly nodded. “They’ve assigned a special agent to coordinate with local law enforcement and the MPs up at West Point.”

  O’Brian nodded. “And law enforcement is on a raised alert nationwide,” he said. “So, it’s not like nothing is being done.” He regarded Atcho with an appraising look. “I think I’ve been a disappointment.”

  Atcho shook his head. “I hoped that you knew something that could lead to Klaus and what he’s up to.” He looked around the office, formulating his thoughts. “What made you think that terrorists are coming to the US—to the extent that you’ve alienated your bosses?”

  O’Brian laughed. “Hey, I’m a charming guy,” he quipped. “People like me—if I’m not working for them.” His smile disappeared, and he became serious. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist.”

  He extended his arm and pointed in the air. “Over there, they’ve been chanting ‘Death to America’ for years. They call us the ‘Great Satan.’ They hit US facilities in other places because they can get to them. But their targeting and delivery systems are becoming more sophisticated, and their bombs are getting bigger and more destructive.” He jabbed a finger in the air to make his point. “Those two oceans won’t protect us much longer. Our borders are wide open, and the bad guys are getting better educated and more technologically savvy.” He shook his head. “It’s only a matter of time, as your personal experience demonstrates.”

  He gave Atcho a curious look. “Do you really believe that was a nuclear bomb Klaus planted at your house last year?”

  “No doubt about it,” Atcho stated flatly.

  Burly nodded in agreement. “We have the designer under protection,” he said. “Atcho saw Klaus escape with one of the bombs, he was confirmed to have shown one to a credi
ble source in Berlin, and the one he brought to Atcho’s house was the same design. We took the plutonium out of that one and two others we captured.”

  He inhaled and exhaled audibly. “Klaus knows how to replicate them. His only limiting factor is getting the plutonium. The price has gone sky-high, but he’s backed by huge petrodollars. As long as there’s a source, he can get the money.”

  “What I don’t understand,” Atcho broke in, “is why the FBI isn’t taking more concerted action. The president knew what was going on in Berlin and Afghanistan. His national security adviser coordinated support for the missions to stop Klaus in both places. Why doesn’t he cut through the red tape and order closer cooperation?”

  “It’s comp—” O’Brian began.

  “Don’t tell me it’s complicated,” Atcho cut in. “We’re talking about the safety and security of our country, and more specifically about my family.”

  O’Brian relaxed and chuckled. “You’re right. The national security adviser is a friend. He’s one of the few allies I have in the government, but he’s overridden by the director of the CIA and the secretary of defense. Neither believes a threat to be imminent.”

  “So, we leave ourselves open to attack until one happens,” Atcho said disgustedly. “Would someone please remind them of their oaths and their jobs?”

  The room fell silent.

  A knock on the door interrupted the brooding atmosphere. A secretary entered, brought a note to O’Brian, and left without saying a word.

  O’Brian blanched. He stood and went to his desk, then picked up a remote and aimed it at a television on the opposite wall.

  “More bad news,” he muttered, “and it might be pertinent.”

  The television screen lit up to a scene of a multi-story building with large windows. Burly sucked in his breath. Scrolling text at the bottom of the screen read, “Shooting at the front gate to the CIA’s Langley headquarters leaves two dead and three wounded. No suspects.”

  A young woman spoke into the camera. “We are told that a man steered his car into one of the two left lanes off the main highway that leads into the headquarters complex. Witnesses say he exited his car with an automatic weapon and walked down a line of cars, shooting into them. He shot only men, and when he was finished, he returned to his car. On the way back, he executed a man who was already wounded. Investigators currently have no suspects.”

  “It’s begun,” Atcho murmured.

  “We can’t say that for sure,” Burly cautioned.

  “Figure it out,” Atcho said. “That was no spontaneous act. The man knew where he was and what he intended to do. Mark my words. The perpetrator will turn out to be an Islamic fundamentalist, and our august defenders will be afraid to call him that.”

  “I’m with you,” O’Brian said, “but we do operate within constraints. Jumping to conclusions helps no one.” He studied Atcho’s face. “This attack might have nothing to do with your situation, but if they are related, we’ll want to know about it. Meanwhile, you have a direct threat to deal with.”

  He stood next to his desk, hands in his pockets. All three men continued watching the television report.

  “I’ll tell you what,” O’Brian said after a few moments. “A young special agent named Sam is assigned there in New York. I mentored him while I was there, and he stays in touch. He’s kinda my back channel to know what’s going on there, and he believes in my instincts. He’s been chasing down the facts around the guy who shot and killed a Jewish rabbi a couple of years ago, keeping tabs on the shooter’s acquaintances. I’ll put Sam in touch. You might be able to help each other.”

  He turned to Burly. “What do you think? Does that make sense?”

  “Can’t hurt.”

  They continued to stare at the carnage at the entrance to the most vaunted intelligence agency in the world.

  35

  When Atcho returned to Isabel’s house at West Point the next morning, his son-in-law, Bob Bernier, had arrived home from Korea and greeted him with open arms. Bob was tall and blond with blue eyes. He wore a perpetually friendly but skeptical grin, and his manner projected a warm heart constantly attuned to danger. Atcho knew him to always be ready to defend his family and his country: he had once broken the jaw of a man he had thought posed a threat to Isabel.

  “Great to see you, Atcho,” he boomed. “Sofia’s been filling me in. That was some bad stuff that went down at the CIA headquarters yesterday. Do you think that’s tied in with Klaus?”

  Atcho shrugged ruefully. “I don’t know. It could be a lone wolf acting spontaneously. Let me say hi to Sofia and Isabel. Then we can take a walk and I’ll brief you on the details.”

  A few minutes later, they stood on the front porch of the stately house on a hillock near Michie Stadium, home of the West Point football team. From their vantage, they saw the rays of the waning sun glance off the waters of Lusk Reservoir, and far below, the wide expanse of the Hudson River carried its burden of broken ice chunks toward New York City.

  Bracing against the cold, they started off at a good pace, walking through a thin layer of snow, past the reservoir and stately cadet chapel, and then descending a steep set of concrete stairs built into the side of the bluff overlooking the cadet garrison. Below them on a road skirting the rear of the barracks, young men and women in athletic gear ran together in small groups.

  Atcho stopped and watched them with a melancholy expression. “It seems so long ago that I jogged that same road to the gym.” His face brightened. “Would you believe I used to run these stairs to condition my legs for soccer?”

  He turned and looked back up at the magnificent Gothic revival stone chapel, now outlined by the sky. His face receded to somberness. “The last time I climbed them was with my father on graduation day. We attended the wedding of a classmate.” He sighed. “So much has happened since then.”

  “You were a better cadet than I was,” Bob said. “I never attempted to run these stairs.” He clapped an affectionate hand on Atcho’s shoulder. “Let’s keep going. I want to hear about this conundrum you’ve gotten us into.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and turned right toward Thayer Road. Now on flat ground, they could talk more easily, and Atcho recounted the entire series of events that had led to his visit to the New York City FBI building.

  Sofia and Isabel watched as Bob and Atcho headed off together.

  “They get along so well,” Sofia said. “We’re lucky for that.”

  “They admire each other,” Isabel replied. “When Bob was still a cadet, he studied Atcho’s actions in Cuba. That was before we knew each other.”

  “He mentioned that years ago. Time passes so fast.” Sofia started toward the back door. “I need to run some errands. If you don’t mind, I’ll go while they’re out.”

  Isabel shot her a skeptical glance.

  “No, really,” Sofia said, and laughed. “I need to get some things at the store. I won’t be long.”

  Isabel consented with a smile, and then stood at the window watching as Sofia pulled the car out of the driveway. Below, the two children played on the front lawn. Isabel watched them for a few moments after Sofia had disappeared, and then took in the view of the sun filtering through the trees on its descent, reflecting off the surface of Lusk Reservoir.

  She was about to turn away from the window when motion at the edge of the trees across the road caught her attention. Thinking she might see a deer or some other wild animal, she focused her attention in that direction and then froze.

  A man emerged from the woods. He wore a deliveryman uniform, but Isabel could not make out the company, and no vehicle was parked nearby. As she watched, the man looked up and down the street, but his actions were furtive, as though he was checking to see if he had been seen rather than deliberately seeking an address.

  A pit formed in Isabel’s stomach. The man stared at her house and began walking toward it.

  Spurred into action, Isabel rushed outside and called to Kattri
na and Jameson. Her tone startled them. She ran to them, grabbed their hands, and hurried them back to the house. As they climbed the steps, she glanced over her shoulder.

  The man was walking rapidly now. “Mrs. Bernier,” he called. His accent was thick but indeterminate.

  “Mrs. Bernier,” the man called again. “I must speak with you.”

  Isabel pushed the children in front of her, then slammed the door and turned the deadbolt.

  “Go to my bedroom,” she ordered. Sensing her urgency, the children ran.

  Isabel crossed the room to the mantel over the fireplace. Reaching behind a plate on a display stand, she pulled out a pistol and chambered a round. Then she hurried to the kitchen to lock the back entrance. Even before she returned to the living room, the man knocked on one of the front door window panes.

  “Mrs. Bernier,” he called, “I have a letter for you. I need your signature.”

  Isabel ducked behind the couch, grabbed the phone, and dialed.

  “Go away,” she yelled. “I’m calling the police.”

  She heard the door knob rattle as the operator answered her call.

  “There’s a man at my door trying to break in,” she screamed into the phone. “I have children here and I’m armed. I’m Major Bernier’s wife and we’re in the residential area by Lusk Reservoir.”

  She heard glass shattering. A man’s hand protruded through the broken window and reached for the deadbolt.

  Isabel aimed the pistol and pulled the trigger. Her ears rang from the explosion. “He’s coming in,” she yelled to the operator. “He broke the window and he’s trying to unlock the door.”

  “Help is on the way,” the operator yelled back. “Can you get to a safe room?”

  Meanwhile, Isabel dropped the receiver and stood up from behind the couch. She took aim with both hands, then steadied her stance and fired off three more shots at the man’s hand. Then she raised the barrel and fired several more times through the door. She heard a groan—and a click as her pistol’s magazine ran out of bullets.