The Harbinger of Change

by Timothy Jon Reynolds

  The nightlight had illuminated a bookshelf with numerous titles, and he had observed War and Peace sitting there. He had so loved that book, and now he could relate to the loss of family that some of the characters had to endure, especially Petya Rostov’s family.

  There had been another book he had taken a sudden interest in, and he had gotten up and retrieved it. It was Robert Graves’ Greek Mythology. Pablo had remembered the Bank in Zurich. It had been months ago, but it had felt like yesterday that the two of them were there and he had thought to himself one day soon to obtain knowledge of the statues he had seen. Somehow, among all the things he had learned, he still hadn’t known what those statues meant.

  James had shown him so much. In their many talks, they had theorized about James’s work, and in their breakdowns, Pablo had been able to enhance almost all of James’s theories, much to James’s amazement, seeing his redevelopment of others people’s work had been his claim to fame. Pablo’s knowledge of nuclear physics and EMP technology had reached its own plateau thanks to his mentor.

  Pablo had flipped the pages and there they had been: his statues. He had read the page and learned that they represented the daughters of Asclepius, the Greek god of medicine and healing. Their names were Hygieia, the goddess of health; Meditrina, the goddess of longevity; and Panacea, the goddess of healing.

  Panacea had been the one who had grabbed him. She was the one that had the magic potion to cure all. If he’d had it, he could have just given it to James and they could have walked away into the sunset.

  He had set the book down. Nothing had been able to stop him from twisting up inside. Somehow the rhythm of the rain had seduced him into a fitful sleep, but it had been broken by a vicious lightning strike and a thunderclap that had woken him with a start. He had half-expected it to have waken James as well.

  It was then that he had noticed the struggled breathing had stopped. He had waited anxiously, hoping that James was just more under control. But there had been no heaving of his chest at all.

  Pablo had sat the entire night by his side. He had been afraid to take the next step into his life, afraid to move from the place where he sat.

  The next morning Eva had come in, and it hadn’t taken long for her to figure it out. She had hugged him softly and given him truthful compassion. Then he had let it all out. He had let out months of rage and anger with just plain screaming. She had waved off her parents, who had immediately gotten ahold of the pre-arranged number James had left.

  Pablo had been distraught even after the undertaker had arrived and taken James away. Eva had held Pablo while he cried “Papa” over and over. It had been horrible for her to watch. It had even been physically hard on the ears at times. She had never seen someone so distraught, so inconsolable in her entire life. Eva stayed with him that day and night, never leaving his side.

  * * *

  Matt was trying to crane his neck to get a view of what happened, but the rear view in a Cessna was very limited. These explosions were different than the first. They were more massive and carried a shock wave that reverberated through the cabin of the plane.

  “Whatever those were, they were even more wicked than the ones before,” Doug said.

  Matt replied, “They were different for sure. The first ones made a lightning flash, and had a small explosion.”

  “Well, those two went boom,” Doug said. He believed the last one had been an exploding aircraft, possibly a fighter jet. Whoever was on their side was taking on the U.S. military now! Never a good idea—Doug wanted off this ride, immediately!

  Doug followed the directions he had been given by the man on the phone. They crossed the border, guiding the plane by the landmarks the man had identified. Soon they saw the makeshift runway lights, even over the awakening sky in the background. A minute later they were down. It was over!

  * * *

  Spence looked at the screen and couldn’t believe what he saw, although it confirmed that his hunch was right: there were enemy aircraft involved in this. There had to be for this to have happened. Someone just declared war on the United States of America! Worse, he feared the pilot had been cut off mid-sentence, which meant he hadn’t ejected.

  “Get me Rear Admiral Anders,” Spence barked. Two seconds later Rear Admiral Mark Anders was on the line.

  “What have you got, Commander?”

  “Nothing good, Rear Admiral. They got away, into Mexican airspace.”

  “What?! How, Commander?”

  “They attacked our airbase with some kind of EMP technology. One of our Hornets was attacked on takeoff, which grounded us. We thought fortune was on our side because we had two F-18s up already. Unfortunately, that did us little good. First, they disabled the Sparrow shot at them. Then they used an unknown technology to down both our planes. And Mark, there were no ejections—the pilots never saw it coming.”

  “Looks like the Ruskies are restarting the Cold War,” said Anders.

  “Maybe,” said Spence.

  Anders added, “Or maybe our smiling trade commerce buddies to the East. Whoever it is, they just grabbed the tiger’s tail.”

  “Commander, what’s our damage at the base?”

  “We lost a Hornet on takeoff. The pilot got out on that one; no other damage.”

  “Okay, Commander, I don’t need to tell you the priority on this one. Homeland Security has a facility near you; bring them in. We’re waiting for all the data you can get. I saw the President already heading for an international conversation with our neighbors to the south.”

  “Okay, Rear Admiral. I’ll get right back to you as we unfold this.”

  “Okay, Commander, stop wasting time on me.”

  * * *

  “Ray, what do you have?” CIA Director Bob Thompson asked.

  “I have a Freudian nightmare, Mr. Director, with some disturbing discoveries, and some interesting ones, too.”

  “Ray, you know me and normally, I love your long winded version of things, but we don’t have the time right now. I need succinct, please.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Director.” Ray gave the boss what he wanted, succinctly. “Okay, so Beck was not the victim of a rape, he was the perpetrator. We found scratch marks consistent with the type caused by someone defending himself or herself on his face, and he had a bite mark on his left forearm, too. So almost certainly when the DNA analysis comes back, it will be that of Nancy Chavez.”

  “So what does that mean, Ray? How does that fit in here?”

  “We also found trace of a second person’s blood, near the nose of the plane. Not enough to think there was a fatality, so more like a bloody nose. I think that our man Beck caught them off guard, knocked Hurst out, and then raped and interrogated our suspect. I think Perp Two, Hurst, woke up during the rape, and killed Beck. Then, the two flew out of there.

  “You know, Mr. Director, I had this guy profiled as a possible megalomaniac years ago. Not trying to be an ‘I told you so’ type, but you knew he was to be watched more closely as he rose to power. You, yourself, had expressed concern that he might do anything to get to the top, and it looks like we were both right. If he did this, then he was a sociopath, much worse than even we thought.”

  A moment of thought passed before Ray then asked, “Mr. Director would you like to hear the good news?”

  “What good news, Ray?”

  “You have an agent on the inside of this case, is that good enough news for you?”

  “What are you talking about, Ray?”

  Ray spun the story the way he did when he was focused, like he was talking to someone in particular physically, but he was really talking to himself. “The possible downside is, seeing he’s not in on this with them, he will have to survive once they all get in the same place. So you could lose that agent just as fast as you got him. His critical trial is happening right now.”

  “What Ray? Who? What are you talking about? And make sense this time!”

  “You have an agent on the inside of this case and his
name is Matt Hurst.”

  “I told you that I didn’t have time for one of our conjecture sessions Ray. What part of that wasn’t clear?”

  “It’s going in my official report. I believe we should put him on the payroll.”

  The look Bob gave Ray was like a husband might give his wife right before he called the authorities to have a forced psychiatric evaluation done on her because she had just boiled the cat for dinner.

  “Listen carefully Ray, you’ve had a great career, but one of your men just went Norman Bates on us, and your word is not going to carry a lot of weight right now.” Bob Thompson took on his fatherly expression, “Especially if you go around saying we should put the most sought after criminal in U.S. history on the payroll, then you are going to get the gun sights set on you for sure. Why do you think that anyway?”

  Ray took those words in before replying, “Do you remember the story of Allen Dulles?”

  “You mean Eisenhower’s CIA Director? Of course I do, what has that got to do with this?”

  “Those two notes Hurst left were Dulles quotes.”

  Bob’s train of thought froze, and he began to remember his history. “Do you really think he’s that smart?” he asked. “He’s an untrained civilian.”

  “Civilian, yes; untrained, no. We know he has training in surveillance. We also found a certificate from an interrogation school that he graduated from. But more than that, it’s what we found at his office, house, and in his computer that would indicate a greater awareness of things outside than that of Joe Citizen. He’s a wild card, and I believe he joined our ranks as a patriot.”

  “Then why not just leave that note?”

  “Because he wanted me to figure this out. He figured if he could lure me into solving this, then I would be his advocate. Plus, it was safer in case someone else found it, due to its ambiguity.”

  “Okay Ray, there’s no way this kid figured out you exist.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Bob. I meant my position. He knows it exists. So my final piece of evidence is Ron Crawford. Listen, he knows that Dulles was the perfect example of a patriot pushed into a position of looking like a traitor. Those in the know, of course, have the real story of how Dulles and his friends were intrinsic in the downfall of Nazi Germany.”

  “Crawford? You mean the kid whose head was smashed in by Hurst, that Ron Crawford? The one fighting for his life right now?”

  “Yes Bob, and here’s why he’s the proof that Hurst was no hired professional. We figured Crawford stayed behind in the parking lot while Beck hunted for them. Sarah confirmed Crawford was alone on Beck’s order. We found the second note on Beck’s car seat, so it was surely Hurst who crushed Crawford’s skull, and then ran to get her and get out. They must have been prepping the plane when Beck found them, before they could escape.”

  “So how does this exonerate Hurst?” the Director asked. “It actually makes him clearly an accomplice in this because it shows he acted on free will. He wasn’t under any duress or forced to hit that agent.”

  “Great observation, Mr. Director. No he wasn’t, and that’s why Crawford being alive to tell the tale is my final piece of evidence!”

  “How is that? Because he didn’t shoot the boy, Ray? If he shot him, then the Cavalry comes a running, so he had to smash him. The fact he lived was happenstance.”

  “I don’t buy that, because he took Crawford’s HK. His silenced HK. One silenced double tap and Crawford’s history. No, Mr. Director, this kid left us a trail of clues that he was sucked into this, and now he is going to finish it from his end or die trying. Maybe there’s a variable we don’t know about. It could be they’re threatening his family—that would certainly account for Crawford being alive. That’s my take on this, Mr. Director, and it’s unwavering.”

  “I hear you, Ray. I will think about sharing this assessment, but for sure, it won’t be popular. He killed two DHS agents in cold blood.”

  “He defended his life against unknown assailants under the color of authority. Mr. Director, my report is coming, and it won’t be altered because Beck was able to hide his true nature from us—from me. I can’t let this boy down. He needs us as much as we need him.”

  * * *

  Pablo’s conversation with the gringo replayed in his head. “She’s in shock,” Matt had said, reporting on Vera’s condition. Pablo’s head was swimming with possibilities—too many, so he drifted his thoughts back to the Hedge, and James—anything to take his mind off of this waiting.

  He remembered being in the alcove eating as he looked at the laptop. How could a month have passed since James died? Eva had been hovering over him, helicopter-loving him.

  He had taken her hand, saying to her in French, “It’s okay, I’ll be alright. I’m just going into town to take care of a couple of errands, and then I’ll be right back. I’ll be alright, thanks to you, my dear.” He had seen her worried face. “Seriously, I’ll be okay.” He had pulled her down whispering in her ear, “Je t’aime.”

  She had blushed, getting goosebumps over her arms. She had quickly put more potatoes on his plate and kissed his forehead.

  As Eva had walked away, she had been lost in thought. She was thinking to herself that he was such a wonderful lover, and his accent in Spanish was so romantic. She had made him use it while they made love. She just loved to daydream about the day they could be one forever. He had told her that he had a mission in life that he must accomplish, but when it was over, there might be a small chance they could be together.

  It wasn’t her, he had wanted her to know. It was just something that would take a couple of years to accomplish and he didn’t know where he would be when it all came down. He never wanted to hurt her, or lie to her. Plus, she was young and had a life to live, who was he to hold her down? She had thought about it a whole night before she had come back to him.

  “I never wanted to live life looking for what’s up ahead and forgetting to live now,” she had said, “but you have changed my perspective. It will be whatever it will be, but no matter what, I will wait for you.”

  She had waved as he had backed out, turning out onto the road. He had become a little better driver than he had been his first driving trip, but still a little worse than most drivers. Pablo had traveled over the same road as he and James had the last time they had come back from Zurich. That had been the day they had acquired the pain management pump. He would be returning the pump that day, and then was going to go get some cash from the Habib Bank.

  He had been playing the Market and had already turned $100,000 into a quarter of a million. The front desk receptionist had taken the pump, giving her insincere condolences. Then he was gone—rid of the last of James’s medical articles.

  The bank was large and on the corner of the block. It had a huge sweeping granite staircase that led up to the entrance. There had been no parking, so he had parked around the corner as the walk was short and the day was awesome. Pablo had enjoyed the scenery all the way to the bank—for some reason, being out at this time felt like the right thing to do. All of a sudden, he had begun having premonitions that he’d never had before—like he was in the right place at the right time.

  * * *

  Octavio had tied his black leather shoes on snugly. They had looked to be in need of a shining. Zurich, what the hell is really here? Why would the boy have access to the uncle’s account? It was a long shot at best. He had secured his ceramic 9mm in his waistband. The preferred Israeli weapon was designed to get through metal detectors. So far, it had, everywhere except the airports, which would have been foolish to try—as well as unnecessary, since under his alias as a jeweler, he was allowed to check it.

  Octavio had decided he would go out and get some lunch so that he could at least get the layout of the place, thinking also that maybe he would find one of the European call girls he’d heard so much about. He had left the hotel room and headed for an elevator, heading to the restaurant Bärengasse, as the concierge said it was the place for ve
al. He had hoped so—he would have hated to have to kill someone over bad food advice. As he pushed “G” button, he awarded himself a small smile as the elevator door closed.

  * * *

  Cars pulled up from seemingly every direction, and suddenly there was a small army of heavily-armed men quickly setting up a perimeter around Matt, Doug, and Vera. The back door of a black SUV opened, and a man exited who looked out of place. He was smaller than the others, and he had tattoos all over his arms and face. He didn’t look like a professional. He looked more like a hardened criminal.

  The man came around and opened the door. Matt and Doug were immediately taken out at gunpoint. They were held down at the feet of their captors, gun barrels pointed at their heads. Vera was brought out and carried to the vehicle by the short man with the tattoos. As he was passing his new hostages, he muttered to his men, “Mátenlos.”

  Suddenly Vera sprang to life. Her limp, lifeless body instantly bolted cat-like toward them, throwing her arms around Matt.

  “No lo mates, me salvo la vida!”

  Felipe saw the situation as a no-win. He barked the order, “Atenlo y subanlo al avión,” and it was done. Doug was tied up and left with the plane, and Matt was taken with her.

  Matt looked back at Doug very glad they spared him. After all, he had let it all hang out to get them here. Suddenly something was placed over his head, and the rest of his trip was spent disoriented and uncomfortable.

  * * *

  Assistant Director of Homeland Security Kirk Rogers had just gotten off the phone with Director Stan LaRue, and he was not happy with what he had just been told. He now addressed his subordinate to update him.

  “Those fuckers got out.”

  Stunned, DHS West Coast Regional Director, Gregory Bird, was speechless.

  “Worse,” Rogers continued, “they attacked El Centro Naval Air Facility with EMP technology and downed three Hornets in all—one on takeoff and two in combat.”

  Bird spat, “Combat? They were in a Cessna!”