by D S Kane
Then, as he watched, the waiter deftly drew out a handgun and emptied the clip into Cragmore.
Stepponi’s lips curled. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Fuck.” Men came pouring through the door and jumped on top of the waiter, as if they were a football team sacking a quarterback. Stepponi shook his head at the act of this amateur.
He disassembled and repacked his rifle in quick precise moves. That fool, he thought. No escape plan. What an idiot. Then he thought about the implications of what he’d just witnessed. He would have competition—possibly lots of competition—much of it coming from amateurs. Crap. Leave it to someone with no sense of art to screw up an entire profession.
He no longer hummed as he descended the stairs.
How many of these bozos were out there?
Chapter Fifteen
October 13, 1:58 p.m.
66 Main Street, Columbus, Ohio
Harry Aimes looked at the well-worn .45 caliber revolver and the ancient Remington rifle he’d bought. One small step, he thought. He was sure Margie had no idea what he planned. Newspapers reporting the murder of John Cragmore were the final piece driving him.
The television news showed the confession of the murderer as police dragged him to a waiting patrol car. The man had been dressed in a waiter’s jacket, his white shirt polka-dotted with blood spray. Aimes had watched him say into the camera, “I did it. Larry McCarthy, from Cleveland. My brother Joseph will get the bounty. I have terminal lung cancer and he told me that he can’t afford his diabetes drugs. But now he can.”
Aimes rose from the couch in front of the television, leaving Nancy glued to the screen. He walked to the den where he sat at the desktop computer and located the GrayNet website, and its “Contracts for Death” page. He searched through the page but found nothing easy enough for him to do. He wanted something where he’d have little chance of failure. He decided to check this and all the competing sites every day.
After all, he was just a beginner.
In downtown San Francisco, April May O’Toole sat in front of the computer screen in the newsroom. She played the MP4 file again and again, wondering if there was a story here. In her gut she knew there was. But she was missing something. How could Yigdal Ben-Levy know that one of the American intelligence agencies was funding terrorism at the order of the President? She shifted in her seat and clicked the mouse, sending the scene onto her computer’s screen one more time.
She watched the old story she’d recorded from cable news a month ago. A talking head said: “Early this morning, FBI special agents arrested a director of one of the US intelligence agencies in Washington, claiming he was responsible for the brutal deaths of two Saudi Arabian brothers in Riyadh. The attorney representing the agency director told this reporter that the director, Lee Ainsley, hasn’t been outside the United States this entire year. Further, the attorney told us the following story…”
The screen shifted to Ben-Levy. The Israeli Assistant Minister of Foreign Affairs was labeled on-screen only as “Mr. Ainsley’s attorney.” He wore an expensive and very conservative charcoal pinstripe Hickey Freeman suit, a white button down collared shirt, and a red rep tie.
She studied Ben-Levy as he approached the television microphones. “I find it odd the FBI would arrest someone for a crime committed so far outside the borders of this country when the person they’ve arrested simply hasn’t been outside the country. And, what would be his motive? It is true the murdered brothers were terrorists. Classified information I received from my own government indicates the terrorists’ funds appear to have come directly through bank accounts that are property of the United States government. I cannot understand what the government hoped to gain by bringing all this into the light of day, as this arrest will surely do.”
The screen turned back to the commentator, who closed the report with the following comment: “The attorney also mentioned that he doubts the FBI has any legal power over crimes committed outside the United States. Representing Lee Ainsley is Israel’s Assistant Minister of Foreign Affairs, Yigdal Ben-Levy. Although an Israeli, he is a graduate of New York University’s School of Law and a member of the bar in more than ten states, including New York, Maryland, Delaware, Virginia, and California.”
Where did Ben-Levy get the information? She’d tried to arrange an interview with him, but the Israeli Embassy had formally declined, stating they never gave interviews.
O’Toole had received copies of all her information at about the same time Congressman Dillworthy had, including the FBI’s arrest record for Lee Ainsley, and the classified reports of his interrogation and torture. And Dillworthy must have seen the implications, because there was now a move to impeach the President. But she suspected there was an even bigger story here. What was she missing? After all, news stories in DC were like onions. Under one stinky layer was another one, much more offensive. “Damn.”
She’d have to dig deeper on her own. Isn’t Ainsley loosely connected to a new consulting group? What is its name and where are they headquartered?
Chapter Sixteen
October 20, 5:52 p.m.
409 Farallone Avenue, Montara, California
The family sat in worn lawn chairs scattered along the deck in the back yard. Cassie watched the late afternoon clouds hovering above the beach less than a hundred yards downhill from the house. For the first time in months, she felt totally relaxed. Her long legs sprawled and she sipped from a glass.
Kiril had made them all “Caribbean Lemonades,” Planters Punch with Myers Dark Rum, lemon juice, and club soda. With Cassie’s permission, Ann had the same thing, sans rum.
The sheet of slow-moving gray pillow clouds, called “the marine layer,” was guided by the tidal winds. With luck, they wouldn’t obscure the sunset but rather act as a reflecting layer and cause the sky to glow orange and then red. Kiril waved a hand toward the ocean. “Such a day.” He pointed to Lee’s drink. “You need a refill?” Lee shook his head and gazed at the waves hitting the shore.
Natasha’s brow creased. “Cassie, you never tell us you work for intelligence agency. We thought you work for management consulting firm in Boston. Brewster, Jennings and Associates. Of course, Kiril wonders why you live in Washington when they are in Boston. Then Kiril does research and has one of his students help him hack into Brewster Jennings computer network. That’s advantage of being an associate professor in graduate school at Stanford; highly skilled help available for free. We find out about the agency.”
Cassie nodded and squeezed her mother’s shoulder. “Sorry. I thought it best for your safety not to know. Even though dad had worked with the KGB years ago, the intelligence agencies in Washington are more vicious than the KGB ever was. They eat their young. After they decided I was dead, it would have been dangerous to contact you.” She looked into the eyes of her uncle. “And, Misha, I hated you for what you did with the KGB. I’d never have contacted you. I should have realized you could help me. Sorry. But you might still be helpful someday. Would you consider moving to Washington?”
Misha just smiled back. “Nyet. One career working for secret police is enough. Being capitalist merchant in Russia is far less dangerous.”
Cassie examined the house. It obviously needed work. The roof was old, for starters. Moss grew on top and hung off the eves. As they sat with her on the deck of the house, watching the sun sink into the Pacific, Cassie faced Kiril and Tasha. “Listen. I’d like to give you a gift. Would you mind if I bought you a new roof?”
Kiril laughed. “Nyet, kitten. We have money for that. It’s just that with house in need of repairs, Natasha can walk into the city council meetings without appearing to have taken bribes from developers.”
Cassie recognized that using her money with family and Lee would present more difficulties than it would benefits.
Natasha asked, “Where are you all off to next?”
Lee placed his empty glass on the little table in front of them. “I’m going back to Washington tonight on the red ey
e. Cassie is off to Hawaii with Ann, then sending Ann back to Washington next Sunday. And Cassie will return home a week later.”
“We’ll be staying at the Wailea in Maui,” Cassie added. “It’s one of the best hotels on the planet. I’m going to enjoy myself and show Ann how sweet life can be. I’ll have my cell phone with me and turned on all the time, just in case you want to reach me.” She wrote down the number for her parents. “And, in case of emergency, you can reach me using this.” She handed her father one of her GNU Radios.
Ann watched and wondered what kind of emergency could happen during a vacation. She gazed at the ocean scene so close. The air was still warm since the fog hadn’t drifted over land yet.
As they sat together in the quiet of the sunset, Ann watched the marine layer—fog growing ever heavier now—moving slowly closer. She turned and saw Cassie watching her with a smile. She now had grandparents! Ann was enchanted by it all. She sighed, happy to her core.
Harry Aimes looked at the GrayNet website and frowned. There were so many “Contracts for Death” listed, but all were difficult. Too difficult for him. He knew that as an amateur, he didn’t have the skills to work them. Bloodweb and YouBet also had a few similar contracts, but they were all corporate CEOs and American politicians, including several senators, one state’s governor, and two congressmen. Especially difficult.
He twisted his hands together. After the assassination of Cragmore, all the CEO’s listed were now mobbed by bodyguards wearing body armor. There were more armed men for each CEO than had ever protected the president of a South American banana republic.
He wished someone would post a “Contract for Death” for a person—just a normal person who wasn’t the CEO of a major company or a politician.
He felt a sharp pain grip him at the bottom of his neck. He was feeling sicker by the day.
Chapter Seventeen
October 21, 4:52 p.m.
Maui Airport, Kahului, Hawaii
As they exited the plane, Cassie felt hot, humid air descend on her before picking up the fruity aromas of pineapple and tropical flowers. The long black limo that Lester Dushov rented waited for them on the tarmac. Cassie and Ann got into the back with JD, facing the front. Ari, Lester, and Shimon got into the back, facing the rear. Michael drove them out and onto a road lined with sugar cane ready to be cut on one side and just cut on the other side of the road.
Even with the windows closed and the air conditioning on, she could smell the smoke from the burning cane at the processing plant a few miles away. The ride took them past Kihea and a bit further, to Wailea, which research told Cassie translates loosely from Hawaiian into “unremitting heat.” Most of the homes and hotels scattered throughout the area were as luxurious as any wealthy person would expect, including a shopping center filled with the exclusive stores and fabulous eateries.
They emerged from the limo and walked into a hotel lobby decorated lavishly with Hawaiian art and sculpture. Cassie realized she’d finally made it to lush Hawaii. She looked toward the front desk but before she could take another step, a willowy Hawaiian woman wearing a bikini top and grass skirt stopped her and said, “Welcome to the Wailea Spa and Hotel Ms. Sashakovich.” The woman held a photograph of Cassie in one hand and offered her a fruity-looking drink with the other.
“Thank you.” Cassie loved first-class service. Then she saw the photo and gulped. Now, she thought, now everyone knows what I look like.
The woman smiled, bright white teeth in abundance. “Please.” She turned to another clerk right behind her, whispering, “Six more, Uiwielani.” Then she turned back to Cassie. “My name is Lanori. I’ll check you in. Please follow me.” The extra drinks arrived and the gorgeous female clerk took them to an elevator and pressed the fourth-floor button. When they entered another even more ornate lobby on that floor, she took them over to a single desk. “Please be seated.” She asked Ann, “How do you like the drink?”
Ann nodded with a smile. “Yum. Sweet and tart. What is it?”
“Guava, mango, and lime. We call it a Hawaiian Lemonade.” Then she turned back to Cassie. “We are in the Nippon Tower. Breakfast and lunch are complimentary, available on this floor, directly behind me, all day until 6 p.m. Only guests whose rooms are in the tower can operate the elevators coming here, using these key cards. She handed them their room keys. Your two presidential suites are ready—the two largest in the hotel, both on the tenth floor of the tower; the top floor. Your view is unparalleled. But before I show you to your rooms, please let me tell you about all the complimentary activities available to you.”
She watched as Ann’s paid careful attention while Lanori told them about free scuba lessons, the six designer swimming pools and four oversized outdoor Jacuzzi tubs, and the features of their suites, including jumbo jetted tubs. Ann kept whispering, “wow,” as Lanori described every new activity and feature.
Cassie sat, nodded and smiled at the woman. But she felt impatient nodding at the descriptions of every new attraction. She could see Ann’s curiosity was piqued. But Cassie was troubled. “Where’d you get my photo?”
“We found it on a website, called gawkerstalker.com. We research all guests in the exclusive high-rise rooms in order to create a perfect stay for you at Nippon Towers.”
Anxiety mixed with rage and suspicion in Cassie’s gut. And then she felt fear. She forced herself to look calm.
Cassie took a single, deep breath. She remembered her training at The Farm, the spy school the agency had her attend. For her there must be no fear. She became impatient and wanted to get into a bathing suit and into one of the pools.
She looked around, and saw the worried expressions of her bodyguards. At first she wondered if they were also concerned about how public her life had become. Then she saw the issue that preoccupied them: huge windows and low fence-type walls. The hotel had amplified the ocean views from every location. As a result, she found no cover. Worse, the outdoor hallways and low walls were natural cover and choke points for anyone to use against all of them.
In the back of her head, that tiny voice shrieked, demanding she stay alert. Once again, though, she shook it off, thinking, this is my vacation.
Check-in took a few minutes, and in that time Ann drank another fruit concoction. Cassie handed one of the keycards to Lester. “Lanori, please get one of these for each of these men. Also, each of them needs to have a key to my suite as well.” She faced Lester and whispered into his ear. “We’ll discuss who stays where right after orientation is complete.”
Lanori took them up in the elevator to the tenth floor. The suites were huge. Each one had two enormous bedrooms and two full baths with huge jetted tubs. Cassie brushed her hand against the marble countertops and admired the aged-brass faucets. She smiled when she saw a large fully equipped kitchen that she had no intention of using. And there was an enormous living room with a grand piano.
The rooms were decorated with original native Hawaiian artwork. From each room she could see the turquoise ocean and sandy palm-filled beach, with the Big Island rising up across the strait.
Large terraces ran the length of each suite with glass walls enclosing them, enhancing the view. Cassie looked at the tall palms on the pristine beach below, and gulped. If a sniper climbed into one of those trees, they might get a clean shot into a target here. Another security concern.
Cassie put Ari, Lester, JD, and Shimon in the one suite, with herself, Ann, and Michael in the other. She told Michael to camp out in their living room on a leather-pillowed convertible couch. Ann walked over to the piano in the living room. Cassie watched the teen and was shocked at her attention to the instrument. She wondered if Ann had ever seen a piano.
Michael sat on its bench and played the theme from Exodus. Ann asked Cassie, “Do you know how to play this?”
Cassie shook her head. “No, Ann. Just guitar for me. Not piano.”
She tipped the hotel bellman when he delivered their suitcases. “Let’s change into bathing suits and
head for the pool.” Ann nodded and went to the bedroom with Cassie. Michael remained playing the piano, waiting. She could hear him playing a Beethoven sonata.
In their bedroom, they opened their suitcases. Ann found the two-piece bathing suit that Cassie had bought her and stripped the clothing from her body. She pulled her top on and then walked to the other mirror in the bathroom. “Cassie, how’s this look on me?”
When Cassie and Ann finished dressing and returned to the suite’s living room, she noticed Michael standing at the door to the suite’s terrace. He wore a Hawaiian shirt with the image of Jimi Hendrix emblazoned on its front, burning his guitar at the Monterey Pop Festival. Cassie immediately recognized its pattern: it was one of the shirts that the Israeli Embassy had treated with liquid armor, STF, a shear thickening fluid invented by the US Army a few years back. The protection afforded by the shirt could stop a .50 caliber shell. Cassie shook her head. “Michael, I know you’re worried about the floor’s layout and are concerned for our safety. But, you don’t need body armor for this trip. It’s a vacation, not an assault.”
But all Michael said was, “Oh?”
He knocked on the door to the adjacent suite and they all walked the exterior hallway toward the elevator. The remaining four bodyguards left with Michael, Cassie and Ann, and all headed toward the elevator. Each of the bodyguards wore an identical Hawaiian shirt.
Cassie shook her head. Such overkill! But the little voice in her head told her she had the right guys along if anything did happen.
At the busy pool, the bodyguards stood as close to Cassie and Ann as they could. Ann practiced swimming while Cassie did fifty laps. She smirked to herself, driving her bodyguards crazy as she moved around in the pool. But when she was done, she called to Ann. “Let’s try out one of their hot tubs, Ann.” At least here the bodyguards could just stand and stew in the bright, hot, humid sunlight. They wouldn’t have to run.
