Soon, he had rounded the corner onto Main Street, making a left and the last fifty yards to The Greenery along Dock Square. He had called ahead for reservations and was happy that his table was ready. He left the seat with the view for his guest, so he could easily see Motif #1.
Five minutes later Le Strand arrived.
“Mr. Messinger?”
Messinger stood and offered his hand. His left leg buckled a bit under him, but he quickly balanced himself. “Monsieur Le Strand. So good to meet you.”
“Please, you’ll do me the honor of making it simply Paul,” the Frenchman said politely.
“Paul it is. But only if you call me Charlie.”
“Charlie.” They laughed and shook hands again.
Le Strand was a younger man. He sported a goatee and wore a thin, black leather tie, a black shirt, and black leather sports coat. Quite rich. Quite fashionable. Quite French. And a dangerous looking businessman.
“I have been looking forward to our meeting for some time.”
“Oh? I had no idea. I’ve only recently learned of your interest,” Messinger replied.
The waitress interrupted the conversation to take their drink order. “Oh, I should warn you Paul, Rockport is dry.”
“There’s no alcohol here?”
“No,” the young waitress replied. ”Not even wine.”
“What a shame. Water then. Sparkling, please.”
For the next ten minutes the conversation covered a variety of topics from the exchange rate of Euros to America’s footing in France, and vice versa. It was a natural segue to their business. But as the first course arrived, Rockport crab cakes with horseradish tartar sauce, Charlie Messinger began to perspire. He wiped his forehead with his napkin.
“It’s unusually warm in here,” he observed.
“A bit.” Le Strand smiled. He poured his companion another glass of water from the bottle.
“Thank you.” Messinger took a quenching sip. “Better,” he said.
But he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t be. Le Strand knew it. He had seen to it. He had bumped into Messinger on Bearskin Neck. And there, the tip of his umbrella made perfect contact. In a fraction of a second, Le Strand shot an injection of ricin into Messinger. It was a classic maneuver right out of the Cold War. A Bulgarian Interior Minister had reportedly done the same to Bulgarian émigré writer and dissident Georgi Markov some thirty years ago.
Messinger experienced the same immediate stinging Markov had. But he had not yet noticed that there was a small spot of blood on his pants. Nor did he see a pimple-like red swelling on his thigh. But the fever had already begun.
Le Strand had carefully crafted the umbrella, using old KGB specifications easily available on the Internet. He drilled two 0.34 millimeter holes into a tiny pellet, the size of a pin head, and filled the projectile with the biotoxin. The pellet, coated with a thin layer of wax, would dissolve on contact with warm skin, allowing the poison to seep into Messsinger’s bloodstream. The poison, much more lethal than cobra venom, was now working its way through Messinger’s body.
The only difference between Strand’s work and that of the Bulgarian assassin years earlier, is that Strand doubled the lethal dose. Instead of shock setting in the next day, Messinger would feel it in hours. Instead of suffering for days, he would be dead before he made it home. Doctors would most likely rule his death a result of septicemia, a form of blood poisoning, perhaps the result of kidney failure. Or the coroner might never look beyond the car crash Messinger would likely experience as he lost control of his Thunderbird.
Messinger hardly touched his main course, steamed mussels in a garlic white wine cream sauce. Le Strand politely recommended that he return home. “We can wait until tomorrow, Charlie.” But actually, the Frenchman’s business was concluded.
“I’m really sorry,” Messinger said, slurring his words. “I don’t know what came over me.”
No apologies by Charlie Messinger would save him now. Le Strand was only doing what Colonel Charles V. Messinger had done to him years earlier. Pronouncing his death sentence.
Le Strand considered giving Messinger something to think about as the fever, pain, and delirium shut his system down; some way for him to realize why this was the day he was going to die. But he decided not to. Instead, Le Strand accompanied the retired army colonel to his car. He wanted to make sure Messinger, becoming groggier with each step, would get on the road. As a final irony, he raised the death-delivering umbrella overhead to keep them dry.
“Get home as fast as you can,” Le Strand said coldly. “You’re not well.”
Messinger pulled into traffic. Le Strand’s parting words swirled in his mind. You’re not well. You’re not well. Messinger took the winding coast route, fighting to keep his focus. He was a few miles away when he realized that Le Strand hadn’t said that at all. It came to him the instant he took a sharp curve too fast and was airborne over the cliffs that abutted the Atlantic. It wasn’t, “You’re not well.” Le Strand had said, “See you in hell.”
Five
Gulfton, Texas
Miguel Vega feared he would pay for his failure with his life.
He didn’t know what happened at the airport. It wasn’t his fault his “package” wasn’t there. Police were everywhere by the time he managed to park and reach the terminal. They sealed off the airport. The only thing he actually learned was over the radio coming back. An all-news station, which he normally never listened to, reported a shooting at George Bush Intercontinental. They were “looking into it.” They should have talked to Vega.
But it’s not my fault, he thought over and over. That wouldn’t be good enough for Manuel Estavan.
13-30 had been contracted to deliver the “package” to some Godforsaken, freezing place called Massachusetts. That was the deal. That was Vega’s responsibility.
Estavan always made examples of fuckups. He’d seen it before. His cousin, the one who recruited him, wore an ear-to-chin scar for a mistake he made two years ago—coming back a grand short on a drug transaction. Another member of 13-30 was less fortunate. He and his girlfriend died together with one bullet as they were locked together fucking. This was retribution for the gang member’s skipping a drive-by shooting in favor of a Jamie Foxx movie.
Surely Estavan would do something brutal to Vega. Better he accept punishment than try to run.
The Oval Office
“Let’s get a bead on Russia,” barked General Jonas Jackson Johnson, the president’s national security advisor. Johnson preferred things plain and simple, like the way members of the inner circle addressed him. He was usually “J3” for the three Js in his name.
It was a topic everyone could weigh in on, but no one person had all the answers. Not Homeland Security Secretary Norman Grigoryan. Not DNI Jack Evans or Chief of Staff John “Bernsie” Bernstein. Most of all, the president didn’t like what was going on there. Everyone knew it. The trouble went back to when Vladimir Putin started this march toward a return of Soviet-like control.
Putin had centralized control of the judiciary, the regional governors, the media, and the major oil companies. He used corrupt courts to seize the highly valued energy conglomerate Yukos. Its former chief ended up in a Far East prison camp joining others Putin systematically put away.
Through this period, Russia rolled back pluralism and limited contact between the East and West. But he didn’t return Russia to Soviet rule. It was more like Soviet-light. But now President Josef Gudinsky made Putin’s work look like child’s play. Gudinsky’s grab for total control over Russian life was another quickly developing K-PAN.
“Jack, am I correct to say that his FSB is looking every bit as bad as Stalin’s KGB?”
“It’s getting there,” the director of national intelligence paused, not certain if the president wanted him to pick up the story. When Taylor almost imperceptively tipped his head, he got his cue to continue. The country’s number one spy sat straight up. “Gudinsky is becoming more insulated an
d paranoid. His squads are eliminating Muslim dissidents. You can image where that will lead. At the same time, his paranoia about the West is turning Russia into a closed society again. He believes that everybody working in Foreign Service within Russia, whether it’s business or human rights, medicine or education, is merely a tool of western intelligence. And our sources close to him suggest that he thinks we’re behind plans to organize a popular uprising in Russia.”
“There’s no truth in that,” Morgan Taylor said.
“But he believes it,” Evans replied. “And he’s right about one thing.”
“Pray tell?” Grigoryan asked.
“We do have people inside. And another going in.”
“Who?” Grigoryan asked.
“No names,” Evans stated. “But rest assured that my asset will come back with valued intelligence.”
Evans began to outline the operation. He was cut off by the president’s phone. Taylor motioned for him to continue. However, by the fourth ring it was obvious the call from the president’s secretary wasn’t going to go away.
On the seventh ring, Morgan Taylor finally walked to his desk. “Hold that thought, Jack.” The president pressed the speaker button. “Yes, Louise.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. President. I have Director Mulligan for you. He’s quite insistent. He said it couldn’t wait.”
“Put him through.” Taylor picked up the phone. The rest of the conversation would at least be semiprivate. Not everything could be viewed as public, even in present company.
“Hello, Bob.”
This was the only thing the group heard. And nothing on his face gave any indication what they’d soon learn.
“Customs officers shot and killed a suspect attempting to enter the country through Houston.”
Two minutes later, the president recapped the conversation. He was stone cold. “FRT flagged a subject at George Bush Intercontinental Airport. He was on a federal watch list. They took him down while he attempted to escape.”
“Took him down?” Norman Grigoryan asked.
“Shot him.” The head of Homeland Security was about to ask the next question. The president saved him the effort. “He’s dead.”
“They had to kill him?” Grigoryan was furious. “Do they think they’re in the fucking Wild West?”
“He seized an agent’s gun and shot a man in the crowd.”
“Any idea who it was?” Grigoryan pressed.
“An alias, most likely on his passport. Working on bonafides now,” the president said grimly. “Where he was going and what he was up to…no, not yet.”
The two advisors to the president couldn’t hide their worry.
“The bureau is checking hotel reservations across the country and his travel itinerary.”
After a long silence, Taylor took his seat in the Halsey chair across from his advisors. They picked up the conversation where they left off, but Taylor had only one thought right now. Another Goddamned K-PAN.
Gulfton, Texas
“I’ll make this easy for you all to understand,” the Salvadorian gang leader shouted. “You lose something of mine, I take something of yours.”
Miguel Vega tried one more time to explain what happened; what he heard on the news.
“I don’t listen to the fucking radio,” Estavan shouted back. “I listen to the sound of money. And because of you, I don’t hear enough.” Without another word he picked up a leather sheath on the table between the two men and drew his Gil Hibben III Combat Machete.
The loss was tangible for 13-30. And so it would be for Miguel Vega.
For each sleeper smuggled into the United States, the gang could take in ten-to-thirty-five thousand dollars. Upon successful delivery to remote locations across state lines, there’d be a bonus. Easy money.
Expecting no problems, and with the advances already wired, Estavan had shelled out cash for a late-model used car. Now he figured he’d have to refund the full down-payment or apply it against the next “package” to come through…if there were another. Either way, he was not happy. Proof was the fact that he called all forty gang members together.
“Hand on the table!”
Thank God. Only my hand. “Which?” Vega cried in thanks.
“Whatever one you don’t need to jerk off.”
Miguel Vega began to cry. He suddenly looked more innocent than he had in years. He placed his left hand on the wooden table.
“Flatter!”
Vega never wanted to join this cruel branch of MS-13. He had plans of leaving the horrors of the Houston ghetto. His natural ability at the computer keyboard was going to be his ticket out. But no longer. He had his cousin to thank.
“Look at me, asshole! Eyes forward.”
Vega complied.
“Do you have anything to say?”
Why even try. Vega had seen how Estavan dispensed justice. It would only make Estavan angrier. “No.”
The MS-13-30 gang members quietly realized it could have been one of them facing Estavan’s 15.5-inch blade. It was merely good luck that spared them this time.
Estavan raised his machete, the principal weapon of the Maras. He swept it across the young man’s face. One cut. A mark for life, but not anywhere near the true punishment for the crime. In a lightning-swift move the blade came down on the tip of three fingers. Only his thumb and pinky were sparred. The gang leader smiled at his work and with a nod. A lieutenant tossed Vega a towel.
“Now go and lick your wounds!” he ordered. “The rest of you remember the price for failing.”
“Everyone out! Now!” Estavan’s lessons worked. Everyone obeyed him. He’d never read Machiavelli, but he was an apt student of the sixteenth-century writer. Without knowing history, he ruled his own limited territory much like Lenin or Mao; two men he’d also never heard of. But for dictators it was always the same. It was all about fear. Estavan led, not through cunning or intellect, but because he instilled more fear than anyone else. His own spies insured that there were no secrets he didn’t hear. And his bloody machete? Once again it put fire in his men’s bellies to do unmitigated harm to others.
As Vega rushed out of the front door of the run-down apartment building in the center of gang territory, he couldn’t possibly have known that he actually owed his life to the man who lay dead on the airport floor.
Six
The White House
Later
“J3, I want you here for my little talk with Hernandez,” the president said.
Talk wasn’t the right word. But General Jonas Jackson Johnson understood the nuance. Talk was warning. Morgan Taylor was advancing the field of play on the basis of the Melbourne Accord.
“2030 sharp,” Taylor said using military time. In one hour he was going to give Mexico’s president Oscar Hernandez one chance to respond. One chance only. No negotiations. No rhetoric. No grandstanding. If he didn’t agree to the terms of the “chat,” there would be a response with extreme prejudice and incontrovertible meaning.
Morgan Taylor would have to notify the Speaker of the House, the president pro tem of the Senate, and members of the Armed Services Committee. He would also brief his cabinet based on the latest damning report prepared by Homeland Security and the FBI on drug snuggling into the United States and gangland-style kidnappings and killings working their way north. The president of Mexico be damned if he didn’t comply, thought Morgan Taylor.
Washington, D.C.
The Hotel George steam room
Duke Patrick sat in the steam room with two other key players from the Hill. He was closest to the senior senator from Missouri, Shaw Aderly, and the chairman of the conservative Washington think tank, The Center for Strategic Studies, Nathan Williamson. While they often disagreed with one another, a fundamental political belief united them now. They wanted Taylor out. Patrick more than any of them.
“The whole succession debate is very confusing to the American public. It gets traction, and then quiets down. Eventually we will see a n
ew amendment reflecting much, if not all, of the noise that’s out there,” Aderly said. At sixty-six, he was the most senior and most politically powerful of the group. He represented the strongest faction of closet megalomaniacs. Aderly came from the president’s party and wisely kept his anti-Taylor criticism to a select few. Time would come when he wouldn’t. For now, naked in heat with Patrick and Williamson, he could lay bare his opinions. “Perhaps sooner than later. But we use the debate to our favor.”
“You have to look at it this way, Duke,” Nathan Williamson said. “Unless there’s some divine intervention on your behalf before the likely ratification of a new succession amendment to the constitution, you’re going to have to get the presidency the old fashioned way.”
Duke Patrick had already resigned himself to that fact. The cable news channels debated the issue. It became a unique topic in the world of division and derision that usually clearly delineated Fox News from MSNBC or Current TV. There was no conservative or progressive stand; no real Republican vs. Democratic position. Of course, some Democrats saw real merit in maintaining the status quo considering the Speaker of the House’s party affiliation. But in any Congressional election, meaning every two years, leadership could, and often did, flip.
So some Fox talkers argued in favor of the proposal. Others did not. The same thing occurred across the spectrum on CNN, political blogs, and in editorials. As a result, loyal followers of the normally ideologically separated channels had to come to their own decisions; a surprising phenomenon in the recent marketplace of biased political ideals.
And according to the popular political discourse, the country was generally buying into Morgan Taylor’s new plan for presidential succession—a proposal developed by Katie Kessler. The plan garnered her two astounding job offers. One as a court clerk for the esteemed Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Leopold Browning; the other as a deputy White House counsel. Not surprisingly, Kessler chose the White House. Her decision wasn’t based on Scott Roarke also working there. It was the excitement that she felt about the address and the commitment she had for the job.
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