Angels Fallen

by Francis Smith

  Dan’s reflexes took over. It was something he had performed many times before, not that he enjoyed doing it—he had to. “It’s business, my friend,” he said, before shooting him once between the eyes.

  Luther fell back heavily against a rack of used CDs, crushing the table they were stacked on.

  ”I have to cover my tracks,” Dan mumbled to the dead body, walking over to where he lay, callously placing yet another bullet into Luther’s head.

  He grabbed several portable radios dating circa 1980, tossing them on the shop’s floor to make it appear as if it were a robbery. Finding Luther’s wallet, he pocketed the Visa and $870 in cash, dropping the now-empty wallet on the floor at Luther’s feet. As he stared at his friend lying in his own pool of blood, a flood of memories suddenly rushed over him. Dan closed his eyes in silent prayer, performing a sign of the cross over his deceased friend’s body.

  Standing on the shop’s stoop, he performed a quick check of his clothing for any obvious sign of bloodstains. Satisfied there were none, he stepped down and into the cab. “All right, my cabby friend, please take me to the Empire Hotel’s parking garage on 32nd Street,” he says nonchalantly.

  Looking in his rear-view mirror, the cabbie was still grinning. “Are you in town for long? If so, I can be your personal cab. It won’t cost you much.” This was a cabby’s dream, to only have one passenger for a few days and not have to vainly search the streets for a fare.

  Dan laid his head back to rest, obviously not wanting to indulge in small talk. He took no pleasure in his actions, especially in the killing of a friend. “No, I will be leaving for Europe tomorrow, but thanks anyway.”

  After mentally reviewing his actions for any signs of error, he once more drifted off.

  IT TOOK ONLY twenty minutes to navigate through the nighttime traffic.

  “Excuse me, my man. This is the Empire Hotel,” the cabbie said. “You want me to park in the Hotel’s garage or drop you at the front door?”

  Dan opened his eyes, not realizing where he was for the moment. Panic ensued, looking from side-to-side until he saw the familiar orange and green neon lights of the Empire Hotel.

  “All right, just pull in, drive up to the second level, and park alongside the wall furthest from the elevators,” Dan said. “I have one last errand to run.”

  “You’re the boss,” the cabbie replied, proceeding up and around the garage’s concrete turn shafts.

  Dan slowly extracted his Beretta for the third time that day, the driver not noticing his actions. He waited until the cabbie reached the second floor and pulled alongside the wall. “This is good, my cabbie friend. This will be my final destination,” he said, looking about for any potential witnesses.

  With the cab’s meter turned off since Dan gave him the hundred dollar bill, the cabbie was mentally compiling the bill.

  “Well, with the tip that will be another seventy-five dollars on top of the hundred you gave me earlier, boss,” he said, half-turning to face Dan, only to see the Beretta pointed in his face. “Shit, don’t rob me. I need the money for my family. Give me a break. I didn’t see what you did,” the driver pleaded, his hands up.

  A soft thud was the only noise heard as the bullet impacted the cabbie between the eyes, blood spraying against the front windshield.

  “Sorry, friend, but no witnesses are allowed in my line of work.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  EMPIRE HOTEL - NEW YORK CITY

  Long considered more of a large bed & breakfast, The Empire Hotel contained only 45 rooms. A boutique Grandma’s house stuck in the Victorian era stated the New York Times in its last travel section review. Its interior tended to run rampant with heavy velvet drapes, velvet floral wallpaper, dark cherry wood floors that squeaked when walked upon. This made the hotel a virtual magnet for the German and English tourist trade who relished every detail of its Victorian “yesteryear” interior.

  At the front desk Dan found an envelope waiting with his recently ordered airline tickets and a key card for his room. Written on the envelope was the suite number Jim had arranged for them.

  On his way to the room Dan decided to stop by the hotel’s gift shop for a bottle of scotch—something to settle his frayed nerves.

  Fingering his plastic key card as he walked to his room, he shook his head and grinned at the thought of having to pop three people. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” he whispered aloud.

  Dan slipped his card into the electronic door lock repeatedly only to have it rejected time and time again, the door finally opened from within.

  “Where in the hell have you been,” Jim shouted. “I have been worried sick that you were dead somewhere. You’re three hours late. You said meet me at five o’clock. Well it’s friggin eight o’clock.”

  Dan held his hands up in mock surrender, almost dropping the bottle of Scotch. “Calm down, boy. You sound like somebody’s wife, and I must say an ugly one at that. The job got a little complicated, and I had to visit some friends, so it took longer than I anticipated. Everything’s okay. Trust me. Pour us a drink from the mini-bar and we can save this good stuff,” pointing to the bottle in his hands, “for the next round.”

  Jim walked over to the bar, pouring them a drink from the airline-sized bottles that lined the counter. “You’re right. I am a little rattled.”

  Dan relieved Jim of one of his glasses. “Relax. It even happens to someone like myself. Let me take a shower and put on some fresh clothes so we can go to dinner.”

  Jim raised his glass to Dan in a silent toast, realizing he was right. From his Navy SEAL experience, he should have known to never bother someone upon retuning from a mission. They required time to decompress. He decided to change the subject, if ever so slightly.

  “Did you have any problems getting our passports and credit cards?”

  “No trouble at all,” Dan shot back. “Not only that,” he said as he walked toward the bathroom, taking off his shirt as he went. “But I also had time to buy two Air France tickets to Paris departing tomorrow evening. You can check out the merchandise on the coffee table.”

  Jim removed the paper tickets from the envelope, hoping Dan was joking about Paris. He knew damn well the farm was four hours east of Frankfurt. “I don’t believe this,” he said aloud as he tossed the tickets back onto the coffee table. “What do you mean, Paris?” he yelled to Dan through the closed bathroom door. “My father’s farm is outside Weimar. That’s in Germany—not France. That’s got to be a few hundred miles away from Paris.”

  As he shaved Dan eyed the image in the bathroom mirror, trying not to cut himself, laughing in response to Jim’s comments. “I see you’re also an intelligent lad and are familiar with your geography,” he replied sarcastically. The door opened to reveal Dan’s face laden with shaving cream on one side, the other side shaven clean. ”Let me ask you something, Jim. Have you ever been hunting?”

  Jim knew he was being set up but went along anyway, wondering where Dan was leading him. “Sure, my dad took me hunting for deer when I was kid, but it was also about the ability to survive in the great outdoors.”

  Dan wiped an excess of shaving cream from his metal razor onto the towel draped over his shoulder. “Right you are my boy. Now, when you would approach a deer in the woods, what’s the best direction to do so?”

  “Everybody knows it’s downwind so the deer can’t pick up your scent,” Jim replied smugly.

  “Give that man a prize,” Dan said, as if teaching one of his high school students. “That’s exactly what we are doing—going in downwind to surprise the prey.”

  Jim paused for a few seconds to allow the thought’s meaning to sink in. “You really believe there’s going to be trouble after all of these years?”

  “You can bank on it, my friend. Now, let me finish shaving so we can eat, drink, and then hit the sack early. We need to get some rest. I have the feeling we’re going to need it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  VATICAN CITY

&
nbsp; “I have just come from a meeting with his Holiness,” Perluci began, his voice resonating off the thick concrete walls of the bunker. “I informed him of our progress with the missing gold and documents. His Holiness stated to me that he wants them retrieved at any cost.”

  “Would you like me to activate the Action Team, or would you prefer to wait?” Father Lester asked. He already knew the answer would be a resounding no, but posed the question anyway.

  “We can still wait and see how the operation progresses,” Perluci replied. “We can always track them through the usual credit cards and other means, but if that fails then…”

  “Are you still planning on going it alone?” Father Lester quizzed, wondering why he was answering to Perluci and not vice versa. Wasn’t he the supervisor? Of course he was still upset at not having been invited to Perluci’s one-on-one meeting with his Holiness.

  “But of course I am,” Perluci shot back. “Our man Flaherty is,” pausing for a moment, “was very good. I’m sure he has become ‘soft’ and lost his touch being in America all these years. I know it’s a little late in the game, but I recommend you have some of our people at the American Military Veteran’s Center pull the military records on this James Dieter. We can have him checked out thoroughly since time permits,” clasping his hands together in anticipation.

  “Let us see the enemy unmasked.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PARIS, FRANCE

  From the comfort of an airport cab, Dan eyed the weekday crush of people making their way to walk along the Seine and its bustling cafes before turning to face Jim. “Is this your first time in Paris?”

  Jim took several long seconds to respond, viewing the passing Parisian women dressed in their ultra chic finery. “I have the pleasure to say that this is my second visit. First time I was a military attaché at our U.S. Embassy. That job lasted for six glorious months until the start of the Iraq war. And the place hasn’t changed a bit.”

  “You were a military attaché?” Dan asked, now intrigued. “Your father never mentioned you were an attaché. Do you still keep in contact with any of your French counterparts? They might come in handy down the road.”

  “As a matter of fact, the new French Defense Deputy Undersecretary for Technical Affairs is Jacque Batiste, a former navy captain. He was my liaison at the French Defense Department. I haven’t talked to him in over three months, but we still remain in touch, bouncing ideas back and forth. I’m sure he could help in a pinch.”

  “Excellent,” Dan replied. “One more duck lined up for us. We can keep this in our back pocket for now,” assuming a more serious tone. “How much money are we down to? We have what, ten grand apiece for expenses?”

  Jim nodded. “Yes, and after paying for our two first-class tickets, we still have about fourteen grand left between us.”

  Dan slapped the cab’s leather seat. “What the hell was I thinking?” looking over to Jim for confirmation. “We each have two credit cards that Geno the forger manufactured for us. Ten grand stacked on each one, and you don’t have to pay back a single dime, for a total of maybe thirty four grand between us. Damn it, I love American ingenuity, even if it is illegal!”

  Jim managed to laugh at Dan’s exuberance. He also saw an opportunity to raise an issue that had bothered him since New York City. “One thing on my mind, Dan,” he began, half-turning in his seat to face him. “The next time you go visit one of your local contacts, I want to string along. Believe me, Padre, I can handle my own.”

  Caught by surprise, Dan took a few deep breaths allowing the seconds to tick by. He gazed out the window at an argument evolving between a shopkeeper and a tourist, probably over the inflated price of a postcard the tourist held in his hand.

  “Let me fill you in on my side of the action,” Dan said, still looking out the window. “When I approach my business transactions, it’s not your typical exchange of money and everyone’s happy like some dime store novel ending.”

  Jim nodded. “Exactly what happened in New York City beyond what you have already told me?”

  Dan paused once more, searching for the right words, now facing him. “I guess you could say it was a dirty operation, my friend. Let’s just say that everyone that I had contact with in New York is now visiting one of their long-lost relatives in a very hot climate, and I don’t mean Mexico.”

  “Jesus Christ, I knew you ex-IRA types were ruthless but damn it, Dan, just how many people did you erase? One, two,…… ten?”

  “Now listen to me and listen well. I’m only going to say this once,” he replied, changing his demeanor as quickly as a chameleon, shocking Jim in the process. “Don’t even think about talking to me in that tone again. I’m involved in this situation because of your father. He had the foresight to realize you would need a little help from someone with my obvious kind of talent. Now think with a clear head, boy. Anyone of those people in New York could have dropped a dime on us for something. Then some clever detective, who was bucking for a promotion, only had to put two and two together and figure out what we were up too.”

  Jim sat for a moment shifting his gaze between Dan and the bustling sidewalk cafes of the West Bank as they drove past. Tourists intermingled with ordinary Parisians acquiring their daily fix of caffeine, sitting side by side, mingling at quaint cafes. He was taking his time to digest what Dan had said before choosing to respond.

  “Deep down, I realize you’re right, but could we keep the killing down to a minimum? He paused, looking about. “And to finish my earlier question—just how many in New York are looking for their lost relatives?’”

  Dan realized Jim had performed a full 360, now resigning himself to the aspects of the mission. He had hoped for as much. This was not the time to be a Boy Scout. “Only three and I have to warn you that won’t be the end of it. If this is getting to be too hairy for you, I can back out now. You can take your chances alone if you prefer. No hard feelings.”

  The words had no meaning. Dan would surely see the project to its end.

  Jim sat pondering the simple notion of going to pick up the gold and returning. Nobody gets hurt. Then again, Dan was an expert in this type of business. That’s what his father had relayed to him, having taken the time to walk him through Dan’s past, at least the parts he was aware of.

  “No, you’re right,” Jim replied, trying to disarm the situation before it spiraled out of control. Each required the cooperation of the other in order to complete the mission. “I can’t do this alone, but damn it, I want to be part of the operation when you hit the streets again. I don’t concur with cold-blooded murder, but I guess you’re using what you perceive as necessary force.”

  “Let me ask you a serious question. Have you ever seen someone killed? I don’t mean someone far off in the distance or hit by a car. I mean in person, close up, a shrapnel or bullet wound, intestines hanging out, body parts missing?”

  Not waiting for Jim’s response, he continues. “Let me tell you from first-hand experience it’s not a very clean operation like those portrayed on TV or the movies. The people don’t get up after the screen shot is complete, wiping off the remnants of an exploding ketchup pack as the director yells cut.”

  Jim raised his hands in mock surrender. “Before you go on, it’s my turn to ask you a question.”

  Dan gracefully conceded the floor, or in this instance the back of the cab.

  “Exactly what did my father say I did in the Navy?” allowing a smile to escape, knowing full well the whole story hadn’t been told.

  “He said you were a shipboard officer on a frigate or a destroyer. You were busy dealing in a load of, as your father would say, ‘administrative bull shit.’ He also showed me the exotic postcards from Tokyo, London, and Berlin. Hell, you know better then I do. He said you were sort of a playboy with a girl in every port, and enjoying the service way too much to get out.”

  “That’s all? He didn’t tell you anything else about my job?”

  “Oh yeah, that you had al
most gotten married five or six times,” Dan replied, allowing a deep hearty laugh to escape.

  “Yeah, that sounds about right for dad,” he said. “I guess he was just trying to protect me.”

  Now it was Dan’s turn to be intrigued. What if the boy had a checkered past like himself? Wouldn’t that be interesting? He sat back in the seat wondering if the cab driver spoke any English, knowing he would have one hell of a story to relay to his friends after work.

  “All right, you have me. What did your father have to protect you from?” Dan inquired. “Are you telling me that you weren’t just an admin shipboard officer?”

  “Hold onto your socks Padre because the old man kept a whopper from you,” he replied. “He neglected to tell you was that I was a Navy SEAL for almost twelve years: Beirut, Panama, the Persian Gulf, and way too many small places thrown in for good measure. So in getting back to the question you posed earlier, the one when you asked me if I had ever seen anyone killed close up, guts in hand. Well, yes, Mr. Flaherty, I have seen too many of my men killed to have kept count, and have in turn killed many men. I have had friends killed in missions that the government says never happened. Killed in so-called traffic accidents—trying to cover it up for the TV newscasts and daily newspapers. The poor families never knew what really happened to their fathers, husbands, or sons. Their heroics only known to those who accompanied them on their missions, or, in too many cases, accompanied them in death.”

  “I do believe I’ve opened a can of worms,” Dan replied. “I think it is time we go and grab a bottle of something and have a little talk before we proceed any further my friend.”