Betrayal

by Tim Tigner

  “You may proceed,” the priest prompted.

  As she tried to formulate her opening words, Cassi realized that describing her situation in a roundabout way was not going to be so easy. She could hardly tell the priest that she thought her twin brother was assassinating people, even though he was legally dead. The priest would be morally obliged to call either an asylum or the police.

  The priest rustled some more. She concluded that what it all boiled down to was this: Someone was either going to slap the cuffs on Odi, or pull a trigger. As painful as that moment would be, and even though it would give her nightmares for the rest of her life, Cassi was damned if she was going to let it be anyone but her. At last she spoke. “I may have to betray someone I love, harm him ... severely.”

  “Can you tell me more?” The priest asked.

  “I don’t know how much more I can say.”

  “I’m here to save souls, not to judge,”

  “I’m conflicted by clashing loyalties. I would do anything, anything to help this person, but he has done ... he is doing something terribly wrong. And it’s my duty, both contractual and moral, to stop him.”

  “In other words, you feel that you have to betray either this person, or yourself, and you want to know what Jesus would do.”

  “Exactly.” Cassi said.

  “Are you sure there’s no way to be faithful to both?”

  “I fear not.”

  “I see ... Then my advice to you is simply this: Whatever you do, do for love. Vengeance, my dear, is the Lord’s.”

  Chapter 34

  Chesapeake Beach, Maryland

  ODI WAS HUNKERED down at Charlotte’s cottage, again planning his fifth and final hit. “Fifth and final hit,” he said out loud, his feet up on the computer desk, a cup of strong coffee in one hand and a notebook in the other. “Commander Potchak, Mark Drake, Mark Rollins, Mark Abrams, and soon … Wiley Proffitt.” His words came out as a yawn. He emptied his hands and rubbed his eyes.

  He considered the list an honor roll, but it was easy to picture a prosecutor reading the names as a list of charges. That thought was undoubtedly torturing Cassi at this very moment. Odi wanted desperately to call her to explain everything and relieve her misery, but he could not permit himself that luxury. Just the sound of her voice might make him weak. He needed to be strong, he reminded himself. For just a few days more he needed to be strong.

  Odi knew that security made Wiley an even harder target than Abrams, but he was undaunted. By sinking so low as to deploy his own sister against him, Wiley had Odi doubly committed. Given that they were on to him, however, he had decided to break the pattern. He would not be using slight-of-hand or remote bombs. Before he sent Wiley Proffitt to meet his maker, the two of them were going to have a long talk—man-to-man, tête-à-tête.

  He stood, turned up the volume on the TV, and walked out onto the porch. There, beneath whitewashed rafters and a rusting ceiling fan, he paced in the cool sea air with one ear tuned to the news and the other to the sea.

  He was expecting word of Abrams’ assassination to break any minute, and the waiting was driving him nuts. He hated to have an operation so completely out of his control. Yet it wasn’t relinquishing the operation that flustered him now. The fact that he had left a dose of Creamer at a dead drop for Ayden’s friend was what had his nerves tied in knots. Some anonymous woman now had two ounces worth of his secret explosive, the same amount he had used on Potchak and Drake. The quantity was perfect if you wanted the deterring effect of dramatic, blood-drenching, bone-scattering explosions. But it was much more than you needed simply to kill a man. Half a cc might not completely disembowel a person like a swallowed hand grenade, but it would certainly puree his internal organs and achieve an equally lethal result.

  Pacing the porch, Odi worried that Ayden’s contact might figure that out and cut the dose like a cocaine dealer. It pained him to think what such a person would then do with the remainder of the dose. In the best case she would use it to kill just one other person. If she was more entrepreneurial, she might take it to a lab. Then the world would never be the same. Once released, a secret like Creamer could never be put back in the bag. It was Pandora’s Box. The thought made Odi shiver.

  He had taken measures to prevent exactly that. He had stressed to Ayden that Creamer became inert after twelve hours. Twelve hours did not leave enough time for a lab. Furthermore, to keep her from breaking up the dose, he had explained that the victim had to drink the full two-ounce dose because the reaction required a critical mass. Odi figured that his bluff sounded credible enough to pass muster with both laymen and chemists alike—but he could not be sure.

  With those two bases covered, there was still the possibility that Ayden’s friend would take the Creamer and run, planning to use it on an ex-lover or boss. But Odi reasoned that his contingencies could only go so far. At some point he had to trust the judgment of his new friend. Odi did trust Ayden. He would feel the pain in more ways than one if Abrams was not killed tonight.

  He continued pacing the balcony while repeating, “Come on” to the news. After a few minutes Odi realized that he was timing his laps to coincide with the nearby warning buoy, doing exactly one length between each bong. His conformity reminded him of a scene from the movie Dead Poets’ Society. It was odd, he thought—that innate urge to conform. He altered his pace.

  Despite all his worries, Odi liked it out there on the porch. He decided that if he lived through this and kept out of jail, he would take a long vacation and come back to do some reading and make some repairs—assuming that the cottage was still standing. He had installed a sophisticated booby-trap to deal definitively with intruders. He armed it each time he left on a mission. He had enough on his mind without the added worry of returning home to a trap or leaving damning evidence behind. He did feel badly about endangering Charlotte’s cottage, but as with the Creamer, there was only so much he could do. Perhaps that was why he wanted to return on vacation and fix the place up. It would be a karma-balancing act. He figured—

  “This just in,” the news anchor announced. Odi turned to see the red Breaking News banner filling the bottom of the screen. He ducked through the open window without taking his eyes off the TV. “While the details are still foggy, we have just learned that an explosion in an exclusive Annapolis suburb claimed two lives this evening. We take you live to the scene where Bob Kenny is standing by.

  “Bob.” The image cut to a man broadcasting from atop a news van parked near the lofty iron gate of an enormous estate. Red and white lights were spinning across the stone edifice of a mansion at the distant end of a long drive. Odi recognized it immediately as Abrams’. “Thank you Rita. Mark Ezekiel Abrams III, the billionaire CEO of ASIS whose Annapolis estate you see behind me, was killed here moments ago by an explosion in his bedroom. The police have yet to issue a statement, but sources say that he was in the company of a young woman whose identity is not yet known. While the possibility of an accident has not been ruled out, as our regular viewers will know, Mark Abrams is the third defense CEO to die a fiery death this month, so the authorities are approaching this as a double homicide. We go now to—”

  Odi felt his stomach drop and his knees began to shake. In the company of a young woman. “Cassi! Oh God, no.” He pulled the throw-away phone from his pocket, and dialed Cassi’s mobile number with a trembling hand.

  Chapter 35

  Washington, D.C.

  WILEY LOOKED IMPATIENTLY at his Patek Philippe and cursed under his breath before downing his last sip of Dalwhinnie 1981. He felt tense enough without being kept waiting on pins and needles. He caught movement in the corner of his eye and turned his head, pleased to have finally caught one of Stuart’s approaches. Disappointment struck. It was just one of the Horus Club’s observant waiters. Wiley nodded—yes, he’d like a refill—and returned his gaze to the fire.

  A voice to his left broke the silence. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I was just getting out of the li
mo from Dulles when the story hit Headline News, so I stayed in the car to watch the whole report.”

  Stuart must share a bloodline with Houdini, Wiley concluded, vexed at being caught yet again unawares. “What story?”

  Stuart arched his eyebrows behind his rimless silver spectacles. “Abrams is dead.”

  The news hit Wiley like a bat to the chest. This time he didn’t have a drink to spill, but he almost would have welcomed that momentary distraction. Abrams’ death might mark the end of his presidential aspirations. Hell, he thought, it might even signify something worse than that. Much worse. Although he had not received a video and ultimatum like Rollins and Abrams, Wiley could not rule out the possibility that one of the victims had exposed his involvement. He knew that the wise move was to assume as much. He gulped involuntarily. With Abrams dead, the odds were fifty-fifty that his was the next name on the list. With a dry throat, he asked, “Was it another bomb?”

  Stuart nodded, and then added, “There’s more. An unidentified woman was also killed in the explosion.”

  Wiley felt an arctic chill sweep over the desert in his mouth. “Cassi?”

  “It could be. I don’t know.”

  Wiley studied Stuart’s face and decided that he was telling the truth. He really did not know. “I don’t think it’s her,” Wiley said. “Odi wouldn’t kill his own sister. Of that I am totally sure. Still, accidents do happen. I better call to find out.”

  As Wiley reached into his breast pocket for his cell phone, Stuart’s arm shot forward fast as a cobra strike to grab his wrist. “Not now. You are about to receive a very important call.” Stuart stared at Wiley until he got it.

  “Your meeting went well?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Tell me.”

  “In a word, he’s perfect.”

  Wiley arched his eyebrows in appreciation. Stuart was hardly predisposed to superlative compliments.

  “Ayden has brains and charisma and a deep-seated hatred seething within. He could easily be the next Bin Laden—given a little guidance, and the proper financial backing.”

  “And he’s about to call me?”

  “In precisely two minutes. As you requested, I have arranged for the two of you to meet. This call is to work out the details.”

  Wiley felt dizzy, as though the air pressure had changed in the room. This was it, he realized, capital I, capital T. He had been committed before but this took his campaign to a whole new level. By personally conspiring with a terrorist, he would be crossing a different kind of line, entering a whole new level of the political game. There were only two doors at the end of that road. One led to the Oval Office, the other to the electric chair.

  “It’s the only way—now that Abrams is gone.” Stuart said, reading Wiley’s face.

  Wiley expected Stuart to pull a voice recorder from his pocket and play his “Whatever it takes” quote. But he didn’t. He just added, “Picture the plane.”

  Air Force One immediately popped into Wiley’s head. He hated the fact that Stuart read him so well. Air Force One was the image to which he fell asleep every night—that open door and staircase with the red carpet and presidential seal. Still, he had a pretty darn good life already. Given the increasing possibility of door number two, Air Force One was no longer enough.

  Before he could say no, Stuart continued. “Ayden is not only the best chance we have of catching Odi. He is also the perfect man to coordinate the future terrorist attacks. We need someone like him, now that Abrams is dead.”

  Wiley was about to concur when his phone began to ring. He looked down at it and then over at Stuart. “One door closes and another one opens …”

  Chapter 36

  Annapolis, Maryland

  CASSI POURED THE last drops of Barolo into the hotel’s oversized wineglass. Then she lit a fresh candle with the remains of the first and plopped back down into the tub. She knew she should have been working out rather than drinking to relieve her stress, but the room-service menu had been at hand, while both energy and willpower had seemed well beyond her reach.

  She took another sip as Andrea Bocelli’s Viaggio Italiano began its third repeat and contemplated adding more hot water to the cooling tub. Her marathon of indulgence had thus far yielded neither rest nor peace and she did not relish the thought of seeing her breasts prune, but she had neither the energy nor the desire to move.

  Both of her charges were gone now. Dead. Caput. Rollins and Abrams had quite literally been blown to bits—as had her career. A week ago, she would have considered this the worst thing that could possibly happen. Now the anticipation of being fired in disgrace barely raised her pulse. Odi’s bomb had done more than break bones and boil flesh; it had shattered her faith.

  The ring of her mobile phone eclipsed Andrea’s swooning voice, and Cassi looked over her shoulder to give the intruding device a forlorn stare. That would be Wiley, she thought, calling to inform her that she was fired. He would apologize for using the phone, explaining that the folks in public relations could not wait. For the good of the Bureau, they had to be swift and decisive and all that, blah, blah, blah. She decided to let voicemail take the call. That would make it easier on both of them. If she ever emerged from the tub, she would text message her resignation.

  She drained the last sip from her glass as she waited for voicemail to kick-in. This was the first time in her life that she had drunk a whole bottle of wine. Staring at the bottom of the glass, she realized that she would be screwed if Wiley chose not to leave a message. She would never be able to get to sleep then despite the Barolo’s depressive effect. She would just lie there staring at the phone, willing it to emit a dreaded ring. She decided to get it over with now, while the wine was still rendering its full numbing effect.

  “Hello.”

  “Cassi?”

  The voice was unusually weak but intimately familiar. She nearly dropped the phone in the tub. “Odi, oh my God.”

  “Thank God you’re alive. I was so scared.”

  “Odi, what are you … why …how could you do this? Why are you doing this? To them, to me, oh my God, I—”

  “I can’t explain that now. But I can explain it later. You’re just going to have to trust me on this. I’m a patriot Sis, don’t doubt it. Despite all appearances I have not changed.”

  Cassi got out of the tub but didn’t towel off. She wanted the sobering effect of the chill, and she wanted to pace. “I love you Odi, you’re a good man. Fight the evil. You’re sick. You need help. Let me help you. Just tell me where to meet you, one-on-one. I’ll—”

  “I can’t do that. Not yet. There’s something I need to do first.”

  “Odi, you mus—”

  “I love you, Sis.”

  Chapter 37

  Chesapeake Beach, Maryland

  ODI PACED BEFORE his computer screen, waiting for Ayden to come online. He was in a hurry to get to the lab, but he had to get this out of the way first. Brewing Creamer safely required absolute concentration, and he knew that would not be possible until after they spoke.

  During a contemplative walk, he had found a pink rubber ball on the beach. He gave it a thousandth bounce against the kitchen’s linoleum floor. He was not panicked anymore, not now that he knew Cassi was alive. But he was still upset that Ayden’s friend had caused collateral damage. He needed to know who the dead woman was—or more appropriately, who she had been.

  His fingers flew from the ball to the keyboard the second the ta-dong announced Ayden’s arrival on-line. “Your friend pulled it off, but a woman was also killed. Did she tell you what happened?”

  “Abrams requested the company of an escort for the evening from his usual service.”

  “So the dead woman was a prostitute,” Odi thought out loud, his fingers poised motionless above the keys. A desperate life had met an unfortunate end. The thought made Odi sad until he considered the caliber of woman a billionaire would choose to buy. It would not be a destitute drug addict or a white slave. She would
be someone Abrams could pretend was a date. She would be a classy-looking educated girl—polished, refined ... and very highly paid. Prostitution would be the life she chose.

  That deduction took the edge off Odi’s pain, but he still felt terrible that a bystander was now dead. Then Ayden sent a follow-up message that stole Odi’s breath.

  “My friend paid the girl to take her place.”

  Odi stared at the last sentence. This had gone from bad to worse—with a very unexpected twist. He typed, “A suicide bomber?”

  “It’s not what you think. She was an old friend of mine from the Peace Corps, a beautiful, brilliant woman—with an inoperable tumor.”

  Ayden did not add further detail. He must have figured—correctly—that Odi could fill in the rest. As a man who had risked his life for others hundreds of times, Odi understood the oxymoronic serenity that one derived from being willing to die for a cause. He was about to ask how Ayden knew about Abram’s penchant for escorts when Ayden surprised him yet again. “How do you feel?”

  The question struck a chord and Odi typed an honest response without thinking. “I thought I’d feel a sense of satisfaction, accomplishment and relief once the CEOs were dead. But the truth is, I don’t. I just feel dirty.”

  Ayden’s reply came back surprisingly fast. “That’s because you haven’t wrought any permanent change.”

  Odi stared at Ayden’s words, unsure how to react. Eventually he typed, “How can you say that?”

  “There’s an endless supply of people with equally-dismal moral fiber lined up for those CEO slots. The day after tomorrow they will be back to business as usual at Defcon4, Rollins, and ASIS. To create lasting change you have to be more creative. You have to think big picture …”