by Paul Stein
“Couple days; no more—only as long as it takes to drive to Kentucky,” Kilmer replied. “It’s a tricky mobilization. Colt’s planned the route and it’s keen as mustard. It’s really yer call when we make tracks for West Point…assuming Conrad cooperates in operatin’ the machine. We’ll know for cert later this mornin’.”
“As soon as possible, Richard…no more than a few days. I want to hit Fort Knox right away. Every hour of delay brings the Secret Service and DOD closer to locating Conrad’s relatives. Three days should allow enough time to test the machine and mobilize. Get your people ready to make history—you’re going to pull off the biggest heist of all time. But no more surprises!” Holloway yelled as the limousine was heading away from the marina on Hilton Head Island. “You hear me, Kilmer?”
“No worries, Mr. Holloway. We’ll give it a whirl,” Kilmer said, shaking his head in disgust. Crikey, I’ll be glad to be done with this arsehole.
THIRTY-NINE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
BEN DARE was dreading the start of the new day. He’d taken the call from Sarah a little past 7:00 a.m. and immediately pressed into action. He’d grown accustomed to pressure-packed, deadline-driven days while working on the Hill, but to begin such a day on only three hours sleep didn’t bode well. His boss, Senator Alfonse Coscarelli, was gracious and fair, but also very demanding. He could only imagine the senator’s reaction when he heard the news that his daughter and grandson had been kidnapped. This’ll be a day for the record books, he thought.
When he finally finished talking to Sarah, his first call was to DC Metro to report Sela’s possible kidnapping. The dispatcher promised to immediately send out a unit code three. Then he placed a call to the Secret Service; a secretary took his information, noting the urgency of the matter. Within fifteen minutes, Director Charles Vickers returned his call. He informed the director that there was credible evidence that the senator’s daughter and grandson had been kidnapped, and that the DOD ostensibly had an agent investigating the matter, but there wasn’t a readily available report to review. Director Vickers promised to meet in the senator’s office as soon as it could be arranged.
Ben’s next call was to former CIA Agent Emerson Palmer, the only man he knew who possessed the analytical skills to unravel the intricacies of the case. Palmer had a short-lived, disreputable career with the Central Intelligence Agency having been branded a maverick agent. In fact, his overtly contrarian viewpoints had at times bordered on insubordination, making him ill-suited for a long career in the bureaucracy, where complacency was necessary for survival. Blessed with uncommon intelligence, his keen sense of perception put him at odds with superiors when his insightful prognostications routinely trumped their less prescient predictions. He had been consistently overlooked for promotions throughout his career, typically drawing the most arduous assignments without a compensating rise in rank—the section chiefs didn’t appreciate that he knew more than they did, and refused to acknowledge his extraordinary skills.
Emerson Palmer was erudite, but coarse and brash and his inability to hold his tongue made him his own worst enemy. He agreed to an early retirement when threatened with prosecution and loss of his pension when evidence surfaced (fabricated, though it was) that he was leaking military secrets to the Contras in Nicaragua. Rather than fight the baseless allegations, he resigned to establish a private security firm that quickly gained significant nationwide prominence.
Palmer was as close to being a true secret agent as anything Ben Dare could imagine, having developed a legendary reputation for his uncanny ability to expose and circumvent the most sophisticated enemies threatening the United States. What’s more, his ability to strategize and design countermeasures to these threats was unparalleled. But these same intelligence-gathering qualities also served him well in private enterprise; his security firm had become especially adept at providing high-level personal security for the likes of movie stars, dignitaries, and the occasional rock star.
Although it was never publicly acknowledged, Palmer was also known to have close ties to a covert top-secret organization known as “cleaners,” the activities of which were so clandestine that even the FBI, ATF, and Secret Service would disavow any knowledge of their existence. In fact, not many people on the Hill knew of this elite group, and even for these few that did, their knowledge was typically limited to hearsay rather than direct experience.
Cleaners were utilized by the Executive Office when every other option was exhausted. They were capable of things that no other agency could accomplish, simply because they weren’t constrained by rules of diplomacy and could undertake actions other agencies would consider illegal. Whenever the Joint Chiefs of Staff or Armed Services Committee was presented with a problem that stretched the legal ability of the CIA, or there was a potentially significant diplomatic repercussion were the activity linked to the United States government, the cleaners were called in. Cleaners were rumored to have been responsible for several key assassinations, from John Kennedy to Jimmy Hoffa, but such claims were always vehemently denied as wild speculation. Irrespective of what the cleaners may have done in the past, their capability was an essential part of top-secret cold-war operations throughout the world.
Ben Dare suspected that Palmer himself was a cleaner, but had never broached the subject with the man. It was enough that he seemed to know how to contact these people and Ben left it at that. He anticipated that Senator Coscarelli would demand an audience with one of these agents, and Palmer’s help would be paramount in accommodating that request. Ben briefed Palmer on the status of the kidnapping and asked that he prepare a proposal to rescue the senator’s daughter, certain that Alfonse would be asking about this as a starting point.
With these preliminary calls completed, Ben steeled himself to make the call he dreaded the most. He dialed the senator’s private line.
“Good morning,” Alfonse Coscarelli said, answering the call.
“Good morning, sir, it’s Ben. I apologize for the early interruption but I have urgent news,” he said, choosing his words carefully.
“Go ahead, Ben. I’m up. What’s happening?” he asked warily.
“Senator, it’s your daughter, Sela and grandson, Jeremiah… they’ve both been kidnapped,” he said, taking ample time to convey every facet of the difficult situation involving his family. The senator took the news hard. He listened quietly as Ben described in-depth the entire sordid ordeal. Ben figured his boss must surely be in shock, but surprisingly, the senator maintained his composure.
After a slight pause the senator replied, “Okay, Ben, I appreciate all you’ve done. It’s mighty difficult for me to understand how both of my daughters and grandson could be tied up with this mess, but I guess we’ll learn soon enough who’s behind it. I’ll be in my office by nine. Please have the gentlemen you’ve briefed available as early as possible.”
“No need to apologize, Senator. I can only imagine what you’re going through. I’ll make certain that Vickers and Palmer will be available to brief you shortly after nine, sir. Goodbye.”
Ben was thankful that the call was over and the senator had taken the news rather well, considering its severity. There was no telling where this story would end up, but with Emerson Palmer involved, someone was going to pay dearly for taking Senator Coscarelli’s daughter and grandson. Ben Dare was willing to bet the house on that incontrovertible fact.
FORTY
SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA
JARROD CONRAD had no idea where he had been taken by the kidnappers, having been sequestered in the back of a van totally devoid of windows. A divider between the front and the cargo area made it impossible to see out the windshield as they drove. The only thing he knew was that they drove exactly fifty-two minutes from Stanford University until they reached their final destination.
Jarrod’s kidnappers had made an uncharacteristic mistake leaving him with his laptop. While it didn’t have GPS capability, he used the time to compose several messages to Sa
rah, which he saved in the draft file of his email outbox. He had no idea when he might be able to contact her, but he placed the first message in his outbox to send at the first available opportunity. He hoped like hell there was Wi-Fi capability wherever he ended up, or this part of his plan was shot.
When the driver shut off the engine, he entered the precise time of travel from his house in the first message: “Sarah—at new location fifty-two minutes from house. Will confirm when see Jer. Stay safe…J.C.”
A moment later the back doors opened and the man named Colt asked that he exit the van. Jarrod stepped into a large warehouse about the size of a football field. There were multiple trucks, an over-head hoist, and sundry equipment filling most of the space, and one end exhibited several smaller structures encasing an office, storage, bathrooms, and presumably sleeping quarters. But what he saw in the very center of the building gave him goose bumps and quickened his pulse. Prominently displayed amongst an array of equipment— computer monitors, a forklift, various cables, and hardware—was a large flatbed trailer on top of which was unmistakably a full working model of his antigravity machine. Eureka! Jarrod thought. I knew this sham was about my gravity research.
Jarrod was exhilarated. For the first time he experienced the boundless joy of looking upon years of research brought to reality. Before him stood his dream-come-true, the culmination of a vision he had tenaciously clung to since childhood. He marveled at the huge magnetic housing that would contain the nuclear core; it resembled a typical electrical generator, except that it appeared to be lined with a thick lead shield. Radioactive insignia were prominent on its exterior.
Near the end of the trailer was the microwave dish that would focus the gravitrons. It was lying flat on the trailer, but Jarrod could see a hinge connected to a retractable hydraulic arm. This would extend and automatically focus the dish according to precise computer coordinates once the trailer was locked in position.
A series of cables led from the generator to the dish. Both of these large components were connected to a computer terminal at the center of which was positioned a seat for the operator to input the necessary formulae to operate the machine. The terminal was surrounded by a thick Plexiglas barrier, which Jarrod had not designed into his model, but it didn’t detract from the operation of the machine. In fact, he felt this addition sort of spruced up its appearance, giving the unit a cutting-edge, space-age resemblance.
Jarrod stood in awe, reflecting on the significance of the moment. He was soon interrupted by a rotund, balding man in a lab coat, swiftly approaching. Jarrod surmised the man was the programmer responsible for building this replica. He had a toothy smile as he approached, apparently oblivious to the unseemliness of their circumstances.
“Dr. Conrad, I presume,” he said, extending his hand as he closed the last few feet to where Jarrod stood at the back of the van. “I’m Aldin, Professor. It’s a high honor to meet you,” he added, eagerly shaking Jarrod’s hand. “I’ve had the pleasure of studying your research on antigravity particle acceleration and I’m proud to present you with a full working model, sir. Please, follow me.” Sweeping his hand with flair, he allowed Jarrod to precede him toward the machine. “I’d like to show you around; I have so many questions that only you can answer.”
Jarrod was dumbfounded. He was not easily conscripted but felt himself acquiesce, allowing the eager technician to guide him toward the trailer as if this were any other normal situation. It was as if the man had no conception that Jarrod was present only through coercion; that he was in no way considered a colleague; and that Jarrod had no intention of showing anybody anything until he knew that Sela and Jeremiah were safe.
“Aldin, is it?” Jarrod asked.
“Yes, Professor, my name is Aldin. I’m a research scientist who has been hired to piece together a functioning model of the machine you’ve designed,” he replied, a satisfied look on his face as if his role had not a shred of impropriety.
“Well, Aldin,” Jarrod said accusingly, “since you seem unwilling to give me your full name, I’ll assume you are part of this illegal confab and are not being forced here against your will…as I am. I therefore consider you untrustworthy and will treat you as such,” he said with disdain, looking angry as they advanced toward the trailer.
“Professor Conrad, I certainly understand your feelings, sir, but I’m not your enemy here,” he replied apologetically. “While it’s true I’ve been hired to work on your research and realize it was stolen from your office at Stanford, I’m not a party to this conspiracy. My only involvement has been to draw forth the machine that now stands before you. I had hoped we could collaborate on completing full operational capability, but it’s clearly your choice how we approach accomplishing that task.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I would advise you, however, that these men are very resolute; I would give serious consideration to their demands.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Aldin, I will treat you with the same hostility that they’ve shown me. These men have kidnapped two people dear to me. It’s only because of these kidnappings that I’m here at all. I hope you are being well paid, Aldin, because your participation makes you complicit in all of their wrongdoing…and that includes murder,” he said matter-of-factly.
“How truly unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate? Are you so naïve to think this doesn’t involve you?” Jarrod asked incredulously. “They’ve murdered people to obtain the nuclear fuel needed to operate my device. You’re involved up to your eyebrows, mister. And believe me…I’m well aware of their ruthlessness.”
“Well, let’s put that behind us for the time being, Professor,” Aldin responded smoothly. He understood that his willful involvement would make him an accessory in all the offenses at hand, but he envisioned a future none other than sipping piña coladas on a remote beach somewhere near Jamaica. The compensation due him constituted a full retirement plan outside the country.
“Let me show you what we have so far. Isn’t this exciting? You must be thrilled to see the functionality of your device on such a large scale,” he said cheerily.
But before Aldin could ask his first question, a group of three men approached from the buildings at the far end of the warehouse. Jarrod figured that the tallest of these three was undoubtedly the leader of this unit. He was wearing grey sweats, which seemed out of place, but the man had presence. He carried himself like a man possessed with unfettered authority. This was the man responsible for abducting Jeremiah and Sela. This would be the man to negotiate their release, the man that would come to understand his disinclination to cooperate unless given proof that both his loved ones were safe and secure.
“Jarrod Conrad…this is my operation,” Richard Kilmer said in his breezy Australian accent. “I’m the one put the pinch on ya. These blokes follow my orders,” he added, nodding his head toward Colt Hamil and Tom Starkovich. “It seems ya already met our techie, Dr. Mills. He claims ya pocketed somethin’ impossible to ferret out. Yer a dingo, Dr. Conrad…but ya see, I need ya to run the machine, and I don’t ‘ve time to spare. Show us the ropes, so we can git past this hang-up.”
“Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Leader,” Jarrod mocked, taking a confrontational tone. “I have no intention of assisting with anything until I know with certainty that my nephew and Dr. Coscarelli are safe.”
“Ya got some balls, Professor, I’ll grant ya that,” Kilmer replied steadily. “Don’t be a fool. Look around…fat chance ya threatenin’ us,” he said cynically, arching his eyebrows.
“I’m not accustomed to repeating myself, mister,” Jarrod said. “But for you… since you’re from down under…I’ll make an exception. I’m not showing you anything until my family members are proven to be safe.”
Kilmer lunged at Jarrod with dart-like precision, grabbing him by the throat and pressing him against the side of the trailer. “Don’t fuck with me, Professor!” he said, squeezing Jarrod’s throat so he was unable to breath. “Ya’ll do what I tell ya, w
hen I tell ya…is that plain enough?”
Jarrod was infuriated. He was forced up against the trailer, with this smelly, overbearing Aussie twit trying to break his neck. His hot-blooded Italian temper overrode any sensibility and he fought back, bringing his right knee forcefully up into Kilmer’s groin.
Kilmer yelled, releasing his grip and doubling over in pain from Jarrod’s knee.
“This…is what’s cle…clear to me…ahmm…ahmm…you son-of-a-bitch,” Jarrod coughed, rubbing his throat. “Until I see my nephew and talk to Sela Coscarelli…ahmm, ahmm…you can beat me senseless and I’ll not help you with the machine. So go screw yourself,” he yelled, struggling to breathe but with fire in his eyes.
Colt Hamil had moved in behind Jarrod, and pulled him upright, holding his arms back.
“Ya’ll pay for that, pally,” Kilmer said, slowly straightening up. But then he sprang to life, moving more quickly than Jarrod thought possible, and delivered a mighty punch to his solar plexus. Jarrod doubled over in pain. The only reason he didn’t fall to the floor was that Colt still held his arms from behind.
He lost his breath for the second time, the blow making him gasp, unable to take in normal breaths. Colt straightened him up so he was facing Kilmer, who kept his distance, wary of another kick to the groin.
“Ya can’t win a fight, Professor,” Kilmer said, in obvious pain, but composing himself nonetheless. “Seems yer a scrapper all right. I’ll grant one of yer two demands…git the boy,” he said, motioning to Starkovich.
“As for Coscarelli…show Mills the ropes and ya earn that concession. But let’s be straight. We ain’t hagglin’, Conrad. Do what yer told or Jeremiah gits clipped. Think he has yer same resolve, Professor?”
