Give Us This Day

by Tom Avitabile

  “Yes, sir.” Charles Pickering said, picking up his phone to carry out the President’s orders. He didn’t like it; the Egyptian ambassador was an official guest of this country. Stopping him from contacting his homeland was a grievous act of non-diplomacy. Still, for the safety and security of the mission underway, there could not be a chance of leaks on the Egyptian side. In fact, at the end of the day, however it came out, the Egyptians would be glad they were not responsible for any mission compromises. They then could register formal complaints at the U.N. and save face with the Arab street.

  When the smallest imagined particle of matter threatens to destroy all that matters, science and religion collide on the world stage and within the corridors of power. Presidential Science Advisor William “Wild Bill” Hiccock and his top-secret Quarterback Operations Group (QUOG) have already faced down some of the most sinister high-tech rivals imaginable. Now they must face one that can eliminate all life on Earth in an instant.

  The God Particle is a super-kinetic thriller that pits brains, religion, political power, and common humanity against the onslaught of extremely dangerous, narrowly focused scientific exploration into the fabric of creation, complete with a plot to shoot down one of the President’s helicopters. Fringe religious groups – but not the usual suspects – engage in terror. Ugly espionage is set against the beauty of the Cote D’Azur. The romance of Paris offsets the grit of Boston’s South of Roxbury while the Euro-pop discos of Switzerland punctuate the quest.

  In the end it comes down to one question: Can former FBI agent Brooke Burrell, now QUOG’s lead operative, choose between her personal and professional life in time to solve the puzzle and stop it all?

  Here’s an excerpt from The God Particle:

  At 7 p.m., Brooke was getting dressed. At 8 p.m., Brooke was still getting dressed. She and Mush were only two floors apart at the Washington Marriot.

  The phone rang. “Should I swing by and pick you up?”

  Brooke was nowhere near ready. In fact, she was in the middle of her fourth outfit change. She was about to say, “Give me a half-hour more,” when she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She still had the new boots on, but had removed her dress. Looking at herself she said, “Yes, I’m ready. Come get me.”

  She ran to the bathroom and checked her makeup. She gave the hair one more brush, checked her teeth for lipstick smear, gave herself one more look-over and headed for the door. On the way, she tenuously reached for the hotel robe. As she held it in her hand, she considered it and then placed it back on the bed. At three steps from the door, she turned to retrieve it. There was a knock, she started to put it on, but then carried it to the door. She thought to check the peephole, lest she give some poor bellboy a very wrong message. Even distorted by the fisheye lens of the peephole, Mush looked good. She breathed in and went for it.

  Mush had his hat in his hand and was fingering the brim. When the door swung open, he was walloped with a thud of invisible energy that literally knocked the air out of him. The hat hit the floor. It took a half a second, but he managed to shut his mouth and put his eyes back in their sockets. Standing before him was the object of many nights of desire. His circuits overloaded as he took her in in her lacy black bra, panties, and tall boots with giant heels. She was pure sex. The epitome of every male fantasy he had ever dared dabble in. Her physique was cut, but not bulky. Her curves were perfect and the shape of her legs and tapered thighs just invited him to explore — but instead he stepped into the room, shut the door with his foot, grabbed the robe and draped it around her. “We need to talk.”

  * * *

  There are many reasons men don’t wear leather pants anymore, but in the after-hours clubs of Switzerland, the diffused euro-sexual gender ambiguity was in full view. In this case, the view was that of Raffael Juth’s simulated-cowhide-covered butt. The observer was Hanna Strum, an attractive woman whose long curly blonde locks dangled and played peek-a-boo with her pushed up breasts that Victoria was not trying to keep secret. Raffey, of course, exhibited all the male characteristics of trying not to stare while staring that tickled Hanna at a level she dared not let on. After he caught her looking a few times, he drummed up the courage to walk over to her breasts and ask if she’d like to dance. She made sure not to look at him approaching; however, another woman watching would have noticed the subtle “girls up” pose she morphed into.

  “Hi, I am Raffael,” he said as he bobbed and weaved a little to place his face in her line of sight as she was scanning the room.

  “Hi.” She gave him a quick glance then continued her not-interested investigation of the gyrating room.

  “I was wondering if you would like to share a dance with me?”

  “You were?” She said without looking at him.

  “Yes, unless you are here with someone?”

  “Would that matter to you?” She said, finally locking eyes with him. “It would be a pre-condition of which I was not aware and therefore acceptable to me as your preference.”

  “I don’t understand a word you just said. What are you, some kind of word nerd?” She turned her attention back to the dancers on the floor.

  “No I assure you, words are not my craft.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I am more of a theoretical physicist.”

  “If I dance with you, will you talk like a normal person?”

  “Most assuredly — eh, yeah. Sure.”

  “You’re learning,” she said as she offered her hand.

  She sounded like she was from the U.S., but there was something else, something Germanic mixed in. Raffey couldn’t discern it over the throbbing bass of the music.

  They hit the floor as the DJ changed to a popular house music cut that any American would have known was five years old, but the crowd let out a collective “whoo” as the first slamming drum beats were instantly recognized. Hanna’s hand flew from Raffey’s fingers as she became a writhing, flame-like entity, wavering to the seductive beat. Raffey maintained his two-step, stiffly choreographed routine, one that most girls let pass for some kind of dance. In her throbbing bass-induced dance trance, Hanna was in a world of her own. Raffey was drawn to her indifference, as if she were beckoning him to her boudoir with a come-hither finger gesture. He was hooked.

  * * *

  Hanna’s gyrations weren’t attracting Raffey’s eyes alone. Prince El-Habry Salaam, nephew of the Saudi King, was unwinding in the VIP section of the club. His father had sent him to study banking in Switzerland so he could better administer the Royal Family’s billions. Across the velvet ropes, Hanna’s undulations made him don his hated glasses, which he never wore in public, in order to see if she was the vision she appeared to be. Upon more focused inspection, he nodded to Abrim, his head of security. Abrim knew the drill.

  As Raffey and Hanna were in the middle of their fifth dance, the six-foot-three-inch guard of the Prince appeared and, in English with a hint of Arabic accent, asked for forgiveness. “Pardon the intrusion, but my employer wishes for you to join him.” He pointed in the direction of the roped off area.

  Hanna shot a quick glance at the thin, dark-skinned man wearing dark glasses in a dimly lit corner of the club. “No, thank you.”

  Abrim pushed, “He is a prince of the Royal Family Saud. His intentions, I assure you, are the most honorable.”

  “Not interested.” Then she turned away and danced even more seductively.

  Raffey moved in close, “Who was he?”

  “An errand boy. Want to get a drink?”

  Raffey smiled and led her to the bar. It being three deep, he decided to get the drinks while Hanna found a small table. She removed her right shoe and rubbed a complaining instep. When she sat back up, Abrim was there.

  “You again?”

  “With apologies.”

  “Look, why doesn’t he just come over here himself?”


  “He is a Prince. He could not be seen making an overture to a... a... “

  “Commoner? Is that the term you are looking for?”

  Abrim just half smiled.

  “Well, my father always called me Princess when I was a little girl, so what’s he so high and mighty about?”

  “The Prince has a great interest in you and would be happy to pay you for your time.”

  “Oh he would, would he?”

  “Yes. Ten thousand dollars, U.S.?”

  “Fuck off!”

  Abrim imperceptibly twitched his hand, the result of the conflicting instinct to strike this infidel bitch, and the training that the social dictates of these Western countries demanded, which immediately stopped him. He just nodded and walked away.

  “What did she say, Abrim?” the Prince asked.

  “She declined your offer.”

  “No, I mean what exactly did she say?”

  “A crude woman, I’d rather not repeat it.”

  “What did she say exactly?”

  “She said, “Fuck off!”

  He turned to admire his new interest. “Brilliant. She is full of spirit. One to be tamed.”

  Abrim just rolled his eyes.

  Raffey came back with the drinks. “I saw him from the bar; he came over again. What did he want this time?”

  “He didn’t want anything, he was sent by someone with no balls. At least you had the courage to approach me yourself. Let’s get out of here.”

  “But our drinks...”

  Hanna reached down and grabbed Raffey between the legs, “You’d better have a set.” Then she walked off.

  Raffey followed like an obedient dog.

  * * *

  Outside the club, Raffey took out his ticket stub for the valet; Hanna stuffed it back in his pocket. “My place is just on the corner. You can pick up your car in the morning.”

  Raffey liked the sound of that, especially the “in the morning” part.

  As they walked off down the street arm in arm, Abrim emerged from the club and watched.

  In the hallway of the flophouse hotel, Hanna fumbled with the key as Raffey started kissing her neck. She laughed and shook him off to better focus on the lock and key. Once inside she went straight to the cabinet and pulled down a bottle of vodka. “The bathroom is through there. I’ll fix us a drink.”

  “That’s okay; I don’t need to use the bathroom.” He plopped down on the couch and started to unbutton his shirt. Because her back was to him he didn’t see the slight mask of frustration wash across her face. He grabbed the remote for the TV and turned it on. Behind him, a man emerged from the bathroom with a rolled towel between his two fists. As Raffey yawned, the man brought the towel down across Raffey’s mouth. Startled, the young man started to scream, but the towel heavily muffled it. Hanna was tapping the air out of a syringe when the doorbell rang.

  She and her accomplice were stunned. “Hold him.” She put down the syringe and went to the door. “Who is it?”

  “It is Abrim. I have a message from the Prince.”

  “Scheisse. It’s the goon from the club,” she said in a whisper to the man who was trying to stop Raffey from making any noise.

  “Get rid of him,” he whispered loudly.

  “Go away — I am not interested,” she yelled to the door.

  “The Prince has asked me to tell you he will pay fifty thousand dollars if you’ll just agree to have dinner with him tomorrow night.”

  “Fine, I will. I will be at the club tomorrow at eight. You can pick me up there. Now go away.”

  Abrim didn’t know whether to believe her or not. But he didn’t really care. He had done his “pimping” for the night. He could report back that he had made the offer and she accepted. If she didn’t show up, it would only make the Prince more smitten and he’d up the sum to one hundred thousand. He turned to walk off.

  Raffey had started to kick and caught the coffee table in front of the couch. It swung his body sideways and his next kick toppled the ginger jar lamp on the end table. It hit the floor with a terrible crash. In his attempt to stop him, the man had loosened the grip on the towel and Raffey’s scream accompanied the crash.

  Abrim stopped dead in his tracks when he heard the calamity and went back and pounded on the door, “Is everything all right in there?”

  The man behind the couch punched Raffey in the face as hard as he could and Raffey slid down to the floor like a sack of hammers. Rubbing his fist, the goon nodded to Hanna to open the door and let the man inside. He stepped to the right of the door and snapped open a stiletto-type knife. Hanna saw the shiny blade and knew at once what she had to do.

  “No, please help me, he’s passed out,” she said as she opened the door. Abrim saw Raffey barely moving on the floor. “Could you just help me get him on the couch to sleep it off?”

  Abrim was no more than four feet into the apartment when the blade entered his lung between the sixth and seventh vertebrae. The killer’s hand came down on the man’s mouth at that same instant to stifle the scream. But Abrim was a big hulk, and even though fatally wounded, he shook off his attacker like a rag doll. Hanna grabbed the vodka bottle and hit him hard on his temple. The bottle shattered and he went down on his back. She thrust the broken end of the bottle into Abrim’s neck, severing both his carotid arteries, which sprayed blood all over her. The man held his hand over Abrim’s mouth. In ten seconds his legs kicked one last time. He was dead.

  When Hanna rose to wipe the blood from her face, she saw that Raffey was gone. The window to the fire escape was open. She turned to her partner, and cursed in German, “Verdammte Scheiße! You idiot.”

  Raffey, choking, spitting blood, and gasping for air, was hobbling with a limp from jumping the last six feet off the fire ladder. He bounced off cars and storefronts as he staggered down the empty 3 a.m. Genève streets.

  The devil is in the details when the one percent gets what the one percent wants… no matter what, no matter how much or how legal. NYPD Detective Mike DiMaggio is catapulted into an international conspiracy when the details of a not so routine murder investigation get his partner killed and him fired. His suspicions that Cassandra Cassidy, a sexual behavioral psychiatrist, high-profile Park Avenue doctor, and right out of the society pages, is somehow connected to this syndicate proves to be a dangerous path. A journey that soon has him pitted against the most powerful forces in this country and around the world.

  Meanwhile, one victim of this international treachery, a special forces operative, Master Sergeant Eric Ronson, abandons his unit and is hellbent on protecting Setara, the Afghan girl he loves, from its evil grip. An army of one, soon his rescue mission crosses international datelines and crosses paths with Detective DiMaggio. None of this is good for the fat cat power brokers and inhuman traffickers who will soon learn the high cost of satisfying the Devil’s Quota.

  Here’s an excerpt from The Devil’s Quota:

  DiMaggio could count on one hand the number of times during his career when he had briefed the mayor at City Hall. This whole “dead judge” affair smelled funny and this was just another whiff of the weirdness. Although this judge was a Fed, it wasn’t like he was a Supreme Court guy. Yet the mayor wanted to be personally briefed by the lead detective on the case. Weird.

  DiMaggio was in the middle of making his preliminary report. The conference room was packed with suits and brass. A huge portrait of LaGuardia, before he was an airport, loomed over the conference table, his beefy countenance reflected in the furniture’s highly polished surface. The mayor was not pleased and made that known to the room. “Not a single lead?”

  DiMaggio was confused by the question; he looked to one of the multi-starred uniforms and got the go-ahead nod. “A lead, sir? So far, there isn’t anything solid to suggest foul play. As best as we can piece it together, the judge suffered a m
yocardial infraction while involved in coital relations, resulting in his expiring.”

  The mayor, who was showing something on his cell phone to his chief of staff, perked up. “He what now?”

  “He was having a matinee when his pump stopped.”

  Grimes rolled his eyes, but the mayor got it. “Oh… jeez, what a way to go. Thank you for clarifying. Go on.”

  “Well, that’s about it, sir.”

  The mayor’s chief of staff, Walters, hadn’t been paying attention to who was talking either, but put the mayor’s iPhone down and suddenly spoke up. “Who are you, again?” He looked at Grimes with a subtle sneer.

  “I am Michael DiMaggio, Manhattan Homicide, lead senior detective on the Jenkins’ death.”

  “Senior? What grade?” probed Walters in an unfriendly tone.

  “Made first grade with fourteen years in, sir.”

  The mayor then asked, “Does this whole affair make sense to you, Detective?”

  The brass shifted in their chairs, as looks of consternation to control DiMaggio’s answer flew at him.

  DiMaggio looked up at old Fiorello LaGuardia, an immigrant Italian and his dad’s favorite mayor. The “Little Flower’s” eyes were soft and friendly, seemingly urging him to be brave. Since it was still a free country, he ignored the enlarged eyeballs underneath the scrambled-egg brimmed hats of his superior officers that were trying to will him to silence. Instead, he opted in favor of LaGuardia’s. “Honestly, sir, no. But I have no idea which part is out of whack. The room we found him in was, to be kind, a shit hole. There’s evidence of a sex act, which may have contributed to his cardiac arrest. If Jenkins paid for it, we may have a case against the hooker, if we can find her, on a possible leaving the scene charge.”

  That got an eyeball conversation going with Chief of Detectives Grimes and another man in a black suit sitting by the wall behind him.

  “Anything else?” Walters said.

  “I am also looking into the doctor’s offices on the top floors above the room where the body was found. There’s some inconclusive evidence the body may have been moved from another location. I am waiting for the M.E.’s report as we speak.”