Dark Trojan (The Adam Drake series Book 3)

by Scott Matthews

  Shaking the sweat from his forehead before it dripped into the moisture that was building in his eyes, Drake knew that he was moving on. It made him sad. He had loved the life he had been building with Kay and wanted it back, but he knew that wasn’t possible. He also knew that the path he was now on wasn’t likely to allow anything approaching the happiness he had lost. Look at the way Casey’s wife, Megan, was handling her husband’s poisoning. What woman in her right mind would put up with a man willing to take the risks he’d been taking?

  Not anyone he knew, he realized, so why worry about it? Enjoy the evening with a beautiful woman who knew who you really were, and then get back to the task at hand; finding Casey’s attacker and connecting some of the dots.

  Chapter 41

  After dressing for dinner in a two-button, navy, pin-stripe suit, a white shirt, and a subtle black, gray, and red striped tie, Drake drove to the top of Nob Hill and the Big 4 restaurant in the Huntington Hotel, where he had been invited to meet Liz Strobel for dinner. She had apologized for asking him to meet her there, but explained that she had always wanted to stay at the Huntington and the Big 4 was supposed to be one of the best restaurants in the city.

  While waiting for her to arrive, he took a seat at a small, glass-topped table across from the bar and nursed a glass of McCarthy’s Oregon Single Malt whisky. The dark Janesero wood paneling, crystal chandeliers, Italian marble and the nearby cozy fireplace had been created to transport diners back to the era of the nineteenth century railroad tycoons the restaurant was named for—C.P. Huntington, Charles Crocker, Leland Stanford, and Mark Hopkins. Drake liked the way the place tipped its hat to the grand old days of the city’s past.

  Liz Strobel looked spectacular when she made her entrance and walked to his table. Wearing a black satin dress with a wide neckline that put on display her curves and a tasteful glimpse of cleavage, she not only offered her hand when he stood up but also leaned in and gave him a light kiss on his cheek.

  “Adam, thank you for coming,” she said. “I thought I’d better make good on my promise to buy you dinner while I was here.” She smiled. “Since you don’t get to Washington very often.”

  Drake pulled her chair out and waited for her to sit before he returned to his seat. “Washington reminds me too much of why I left the army. I try to leave politics to my father-in-law. Would you like a cocktail?”

  “Yes, please. A martini with a lemon twist. How’s Mike doing?” she asked as he waved to the bartender and ordered her drink.

  “They’re keeping him until Monday because the numbness in his hands and feet hasn’t cleared up yet. Otherwise, I think he’s okay. I haven’t had a chance to talk with him much without Megan being there.”

  “I’ve only met Megan once,” Strobel said, “but I couldn’t help notice some tension between you two.”

  “She blames me for Mike being poisoned. She doesn’t want him hanging with me and taking risks that might get him hurt.”

  Drake watched as the bartender put the martini on the table and waited until she had taken a sip and nodded her approval.

  “Well, I don’t blame her, Adam. I’m sure your wife would have felt the same way. Are you comfortable with the risks you’ve been taking?”

  What he was uncomfortable with was her question. Was she asking him because she was worried about him? Or was she asking as his liaison with DHS and was she worried about asking him to check out the cyber attacks at EIS? Either way, he didn’t need to carry around the weight of someone else’s worry. He’d seen what that did to married soldiers who became more cautious and careful with each worried letter from home. The hesitation caused by the weight of worry got some of them killed.

  “Why do you ask, Liz? You took risks when you were with the FBI. Were you comfortable taking those risks?”

  “That was different,” she said quietly. “It was work. But this isn’t something you’re obligated to do. I guess I’m curious about why you’re doing what you’re doing.”

  Fortunately, he didn’t have to answer the question because the waitress arrived to take them to their table in the main dining room. He was still thinking about how to explain himself when they were seated and were handed their menus.

  “I already know what I’m having,” she said, giving him a little more time to think about his answer, “I looked at the menu in my room. The seafood risotto looks wonderful.”

  Drake decided on the pan seared Angus steak and a Dungeness crab and avocado salad.

  “I’ll have the crab and avocado salad as well,” Strobel said. “Would you like to order the wine for us?”

  “Only if you’ll let me pay for it.”

  When she agreed, he ordered a bottle of 2002 Chateau St. Jean Cinq Cepages, then sat back to finish the whiskey he’d brought with him from the cocktail lounge.

  “You’re still thinking about my question, aren’t you?” she asked with a smile. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  Now it was Drake’s turn to smile. “You’re very perceptive. I’m still thinking about why I’m doing what I’m doing. I’m not sure I can explain it.”

  “Do you like being a lawyer?”

  “I haven’t been doing a lot of lawyering lately, as my secretary will quickly attest,” he replied. “But, yes. I like the premise that we’re a nation ruled by laws, that no man is above the law, and that justice prevails. But we both know that far too often, that premise doesn’t prove to be true. Laws that should be enforced, aren’t. Men and women of wealth and power put themselves above the law. And they get away with it. Equal justice for all has come to mean empowering groups and causes by creating rights the Constitution never intended. So I guess the short answer to your question is I liked being a prosecutor. And I’m trying to like being an attorney in private practice. But I’m not there yet.”

  “Did you like being a soldier?”

  He looked into her hazel-green eyes and considered whether he wanted to allow her to continue interrogating him. She was seeking permission to enter the private domain of his thoughts that only one person had ever been allowed to enter. His wife.

  “I’m still a soldier, Liz. The oath I took to protect and defend this country didn’t expire when I left the army. That’s one of the reasons I agreed to work with you and the Secretary. The other reason is we’re still at war with an enemy that wants to destroy us, and all the drone strikes in the world aren’t going to keep them from coming after us. The FBI can continue to round up stupid Islamists who are enticed into one made-up terror plot or another, but the guys I worry about are still waiting to strike. We’re not going to win this war by hoping for change in the Middle East, regardless of what the President thinks.”

  The waitress arrived with their salads, and Drake apologized for preaching to the choir.

  “You’re right, of course,” she said with a fork of crab paused midway to her mouth, “and that’s something I need to talk to you about. I’m thinking of leaving Homeland Security.”

  “Why?”

  “Secretary Rallings had a heart attack last month and tendered his resignation to the President. He’s okay and agreed to stay on until after the election next month. I’m not sure I want to work for the person I think is going to take his place.”

  “What are you planning on doing?”

  “Senator Hazelton has offered me a position on his staff to oversee his work on the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Would you be comfortable with me working for your father-in-law?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Drake asked.

  “Because I like you, Adam, and I don’t want to do anything that will ruin our relationship.”

  Before Drake had a chance to digest what she had said, the maître d’ approached and said that Ms. Strobel had an urgent phone call and would she care to take it? He watched her follow the maître d’ to an old-fashioned phone booth. What had she
said about liking him? He knew he was attracted to her, and he felt guilty about it so soon after Kay had died. But he hadn’t thought that Liz might be attracted to him.

  When she stepped out of the phone booth and walked toward him, Drake realized he was staring at a very beautiful woman. He stood up to seat her and push in her chair.

  “My assistant located the model’s agent,” she said. “She’s finishing a photo shoot tomorrow morning on the Queen Mary in Long Beach. Shall we finish our dinner, or do we need to head to LA right away?”

  Chapter 42

  The final photo shoot on the Queen Mary for the Lebanese fashion designer, featuring his Gowns of Illusion collection, was scheduled for 7:01 Saturday morning to catch the natural glow of the sun’s first rays. Drake and Liz Strobel watched from the Sun Deck, as the photographer’s crew set up along the starboard railing on the Main Deck, two decks below.

  The night before, after they had learned that Daniela Dekker, the assassin and fashion model who had poisoned Mike Casey, was in LA, Larry Green had made his boss’s Gulfstream G280 available and had flown with them from San Francisco to the Long Beach Airport.

  There they had met a hastily organized team from the Los Angeles office of Puget Sound Security and moved on to the Hilton hotel on Queen’s Way Drive. Sitting in a small conference room with a view of the ocean, they had worked until midnight to put together a plan to confront Dekker.

  Built in 1930, the RMS Queen Mary had sailed the Atlantic as the grandest ocean liner in the world from 1936 until the start of World War II, when the ship was transformed into a troopship. Painted in grey camouflage and dubbed the Grey Ghost, she’d been capable of transporting 16,000 troops across the Atlantic at thirty knots, an unheard of speed for so large a ship. After the war, she was retrofitted and resumed her regular passenger service until she was retired in 1965 and sold in 1967 to become a floating hotel and event venue in Long Beach, California.

  Although tours of the Queen Mary wouldn’t begin until after the photo shoot was finished, Green had arranged a pre-tour security sweep of the ship on behalf of Puget Sound Security and a fictitious VIP client with special security requirements. This sweep was to take place while the fashion designer was working. Two of Green’s men were stationed at the bottom of the two gang planks that were being used to make sure no unwelcome paparazzi intruded into the so-called VIP client’s private tour of the ship. Green and another of his men, on the main deck to size up potential security risks, were standing outside the Garden Lounge, where the models were getting their last-minute touchups. Drake and Liz, who had been introduced as the advance staff for the so-called VIP, had paused on the Sun Deck to watch the photographer adjusting the portable light reflectors that surrounded his staging area along the starboard rail.

  “When Larry signals that Daniela Dekker is coming out for her session,” Drake said without taking his eyes off the scene below, “I’ll move down to the main deck. When she heads back to the Garden Lounge to change for the next set, we’ll escort her off the ship, where you can use your Homeland Security special agent authority to arrest her. Stay up here until then and report anything that looks out of place. All right?”

  “I said I would,” Strobel said. “But be careful, Adam. She’s a killer. She won’t go without a fight.”

  “That’s why taking her now should work. She can’t conceal a weapon during the wardrobe changes and three of us should be able to handle the hand-to-hand stuff.” Drake checked in with his spotter below. “Larry, have you seen any security or personal bodyguards that might interfere with our plans?”

  Green had provided each of them with small wireless earpieces that were invisible when inserted into their ears and were connected to modified cell phones that worked as transmitters. The units were similar to what the Secret Service uses and provided concealed communication capability for all members of the team.

  “None that we’ve seen,” Green replied. “Unless these hairdressers and makeup people are tougher than they look.”

  “How close are they to getting this thing started?”

  Larry took a quick look at the door of the Garden Lounge, where a young woman assisting the photographer was impatiently checking her watch. “I’d say pretty close,” he said. “It’s 6:55. Sunrise is in six minutes.”

  Drake walked to the port side of the aft Sun Deck and looked down at the two gangplanks. There was no activity on the one that had been opened for the fashion shoot, and the other was being used by men pushing hand carts and unloading restaurant supplies from a Sysco truck.

  To the east and above the skyline of Long Beach, a pink glow highlighted the horizon.

  When he returned to stand next to Strobel, the first model walked out wearing an elegant, long, black lace gown. Then, at the direction of the photographer, she began working through a series of fashion poses.

  “Drake,” Green said, “they just let Dekker know she’s next.”

  Drake moved quickly to the stairs at the rear of the Sun Deck viewing gallery and started down to the Main Deck. When he arrived, he looked through the window in the stairwell door that opened next to the Garden Lounge and saw Daniela Dekker walking out to take the place of the first model.

  She was wearing a long, black, “illusion gown” that appeared to be sheer above her waist. It had a thigh-high slit through which flashed a long, tanned leg when she placed one hand on the rail and turned back to look at the photographer. As she began to move through her choreographed poses, her eyes moved from face to face in a distant, but always vigilant, appraisal of her audience.

  Liz was right, Drake thought. Despite her dazzling beauty, this one would not be taken without a fight. He recognized the cold wariness of a proficient killer even as she obeyed the voice of the photographer who was coaxing her to make him feel the warmth of her smile. Obviously a trained operative, she was storing the images of every face she scanned, searching for any sign of danger.

  When her eyes flared and her head suddenly snapped to her left, Drake knew she had sensed danger somewhere nearby. He followed her eyes and saw a young man wearing a blue jacket with white lettering on it walking quickly toward her. His lips moved in the recital of a silent prayer and his eyes had the thousand-yard stare Drake had seen before.

  “Larry, get down!” Drake shouted as he watched the martyr stop next to the photographer and shout Allahu Akbar as he raised his arms above his head. Drake dove to the floor in the stairwell as the explosion blew out the window in the door above him.

  Chapter 43

  Rising to his knees as he brushed the pebble-like pieces of glass off his head and shoulders, Drake jerked the dislodged stairwell door open and looked out. The martyr’s bomb had blown a twenty foot gap in the starboard railing where Daniela Dekker had been standing. A bloody leg and bits of body and flesh were all that remained of the bomber…except for his head, which lay on the aft deck twenty feet away. The photographer and two of his assistants lay on their backs where they had fallen, and judging from the blood pooling beneath them, they were dead.

  Larry Green was sitting on the deck to the right of the Garden Lounge, shaking his head. His eyes were glazed, and he was opening and closing his mouth as he tried to restore his hearing. He waved Drake away when he approached, indicating that he and the other PSS man next to him were all right. “Go help the others,” he signaled.

  The photographer’s assistant who had been standing at the door of the lounge where the models were made up was now sitting slumped against the wall with her chin on her chest. She was breathing when he checked, but Drake thought she was unconscious. He was reluctant to move her. He could hear cries and sobbing inside the Garden Lounge, where the fashion designer and other models had been watching the shoot.

  Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Drake turned to see Strobel mouthing words he took to mean “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he said too loudly
.

  Queen Mary employees were beginning to gather on the Main Deck and staring at the carnage. As his hearing slowly returned and Strobel walked away, Drake could hear her instructing someone to keep everyone back, that this was a crime scene and that she was with Homeland Security and that help was on the way.

  Surveying the destruction, Drake knew that the bomb the martyr had worn had been designed with a directional charge and that Daniela Dekker had clearly been the target. The gap in the railing was exactly where she had been standing. The bomber had, so to speak, pulled the trigger when he was standing directly in front of her. There might be some remains of her body in the water below, but there wouldn’t be many. The photographer and his assistants who had been ten feet away from Dekker would have been killed by the concussive blast of the bomb that collapsed lungs, stopped hearts, and destroyed internal organs.

  For whatever reason, someone had wanted to make sure that Daniela Dekker was killed. Otherwise, the bomber’s vest would have been filled with all the usual ingredients—like shrapnel and nails and ball bearings dipped in rat poison—that would indiscriminately kill as many people as possible.

  When Strobel returned and reached up to pluck small pieces of glass that remained in his hair, she said “When I said she wouldn’t go without a fight, I was wrong. She never saw it coming.”

  “No,” Drake said, shaking his head. “She saw it coming. She was aware that she was in danger. I could tell by the way she was looking at everyone. Someone wanted her silenced. It’s as if someone knew we were closing in on her.”

  Strobel nodded. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “I’ve got to calm the models down and make sure none of them leave. They may be able to tell us something about the mysterious Daniela Dekker. Tell Larry’s guys down on the gangplanks to keep everyone on the ship until the police arrive.”