Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  Purcell and Muller were both staring up at the eyrie — gloating.

  My view of them was immediately blocked by a gleaming line of luxury cars.

  I dropped the binoculars to see Elden, Muller and Purcell drive off and five limousines pull up, one by one, to Gibson’s front door. Their chauffeurs each jogged around to assist in their employer’s comfortable exit. Charles Gibson appeared and stood ready to greet them. All five visitors bounded up the stairs with a respectful amount of enthusiasm.

  ‘What the fuck is going on here?’ said Honeycutt savagely. ‘See the short one nearest the front door … the one that’s just shaking hands with Gibson?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s Reginald Kelty, secretary of the Treasury. The thin grey-haired man on Gibson’s right is Admiral William J. Suttor, the secretary for the Navy.’

  He glanced at me, his expression severe. ‘They’re both in President Roosevelt’s own cabinet.’

  Honeycutt was itching to go down and find out what the meeting was about.

  I grabbed his arm. ‘Whoa there, boy. Before we do anything else, we’re going in there.’

  I looked over at the eyrie.

  46

  THE EYRIE

  The eyrie was basically one huge living room with glass doors that opened out onto a massive wooden balcony.

  The place was wedged full of hunting trophies taken from every large animal you could think of and from every continent. The head of a magnificent male lion with flowing mane and bared teeth hung on the wall closest to me, next to him was a double horned rhinoceros, further along a grizzly bear reared, its huge head brushing the high ceiling.

  Hunting … so Gibson liked chasing down prey.

  That’s exactly what both Purcell and Muller had tried to do to me.

  ‘I’ll do the back, you do the front,’ I said.

  Honeycutt agreed.

  While he went through the main room and deck, I checked the smaller rooms at the back. There were two bedrooms and a kitchen.

  Why were those two slimy bastards Purcell and Muller so interested in this place?

  I checked the master bedroom first.

  It was stark. All white, no windows, with two long built-in closets on either side of a huge bed. The door opposite me presumably led to an ensuite bathroom. No other furnishings.

  The four-poster bed was pristine white with long black steel struts holding up a plain white canvas roof. Not the most romantic four-poster I’d ever seen.

  I opened the nearest door of the wall closet and leant in for a closer look. It was completely empty. Then I noticed a gleam further along. I opened the next door to find a tripod-mounted camera. It was a mini version of the ones I’d seen back at the film studio.

  I followed the lens. It was aimed straight at the massive bed.

  Then I saw the straps.

  I shot back to check out the four-poster.

  There were leather straps riveted to the base of each steel pole.

  The straps must’ve come with the custom-made bed.

  I shot a look back at the camera. Please, God, let this just be a quirky sexual habit.

  Please …

  I swung open the far door — it led into a steel and white-tiled bathroom, as pristine as the bedroom. Nothing in the tub, nothing in the medicine cabinet. Then I looked down at the steel rubbish bin …

  It held a used syringe.

  I marched back out and threw open the door of the second closet.

  White hoods with eyes cut in them hung from the rail.

  And with each hood was an old-fashioned iron key hanging from a leather thong.

  Eve had told me about that girl, that Mexican actress who died — Maria. Her attackers had worn hoods and had metal keys hanging from their necks.

  They’d made stag movies of the rape … porno for later.

  They’d covered her body in bite marks.

  The gloating expressions on Purcell’s and Muller’s faces …

  The Wolves of Hollywood and the Venice Beach Maulers …

  Rage dimmed my vision.

  Gibson and his filthy pack of degenerates had made Los Angeles into their own private raping ground. And he used the ritual act of rape to cement the bonds of his dirty little secret society.

  There was a handwritten list fixed to the closet door. The writing was stylish, arrogant, educated.

  It was a list of names.

  No. It was a schedule …

  A rape schedule.

  One side held those women who’d already been hunted down this year — there must’ve been at least thirty of them.

  One of them was Maria Carrera, the Mexican actress.

  Another was Julie Dray — the young runaway from the poster in Rochelle’s diner in Venice.

  Oh God.

  The other side held requests.

  My name was on it … next to Purcell’s, with Phyllis’ home address as the pick-up point.

  Purcell had ordered me like a steak.

  Aaaagghhh! I ripped the list down.

  Muller and the rest had been there that night to round me up!

  ‘Kannon, what’s wrong?’

  I shoved the rape list in my side pocket. ‘I found these.’ I indicated the hoods.

  Honeycutt stepped in to examine them. ‘So you were right about the Iron Key connection. Good. Very good.’ He was way too pleased to have Gibson confirmed as his rightful target. ‘I’m going to get that traitorous son of a bitch!’

  Was I going to have to hold him back from doing something stupid, as well as everything else?

  But a rape list … My God! All those women …

  I wanted to go down to that shiny new house and tear Gibson limb from limb.

  But if I told Honeycutt about the attack on the bridge now — in his state of mind …

  Instead I stiffened my spine. ‘You check the other bedroom, Honeycutt. I’ll do the kitchen.’

  One of us had to stay cool.

  Honeycutt gave me a searching look; my voice must’ve wavered. He started to ask …

  ‘I’m just nervous about wasting time — I can’t fail Troy.’ At least the last bit sounded like the truth.

  Honeycutt went off reluctantly, sending me uneasy glances over his shoulder as he went.

  The kitchen was industrial style, with gleaming steel fittings and a huge fridge. At the back of the kitchen was a big metal cold room.

  I didn’t want to open it.

  But when I tried to the cold room door was locked shut. And there was no obvious way to unlock it. Then I noticed a small square sheet of steel on the wall, right next to the lock. It appeared fixed into the wall, but when I got out my penknife and dug at it the plate slid a fraction. So I pushed it some more …

  Hidden behind the plate was a switch.

  Oh God, what was inside?

  ‘Honeycutt,’ I said, my voice wavering ever so slightly. ‘Come and have a look at this.’

  He stood beside me as I flipped the switch and the cold room door unlocked.

  The heavy gleaming steel door didn’t open to reveal a cold room at all. It showed a corridor leading directly into the mountain.

  Into a bunker.

  It was completely different to both the eyrie and the gleaming edifice to modernity in the valley below.

  But it was no rough-sawn rock hideaway either.

  The corridor was snowy white with classic decorative mouldings on the high ceiling. Sidelights and semi-circular fanlights surrounded each of the three doorways leading off the corridor.

  ‘This must’ve taken years and millions to build, Honeycutt. The place is guarded … He has the LAPD on side … What could be so secret Gibson needs to hide it inside a mountain?’

  ‘Only one way to find out,’ stated Honeycutt, keen to get inside.

  He pulled the plate back over the switch and shut the heavy door behind us. There was one door on the left, one on the right and one straight ahead.

  The one on the left continued the
stately décor but in the middle of the room there were several rows of desks equipped with phones and desk lamps. Next to each was a locked filing cabinet. Along the back of the room, five radio transmitters sat side by side.

  Honeycutt checked the radio set-up. ‘These transmitters must be connected to that antenna we saw up on the top of the mountain.’

  We crossed the hall to the room immediately opposite. Again it continued the same colonial décor, but this one was a meeting room. It held a long table of burnished wood with antique chairs on either side. On one wall there were various maps of Europe; the opposite one held maps of the Asia-Pacific region. The third wall was covered in detailed depictions of North and South America.

  Then we opened the door into the room at the very end of the corridor.

  We both dropped our shoulder bags in shock.

  This was no ordinary bunker.

  ‘This has to be Gibson’s secret office,’ said Honeycutt.

  The snow-white walls and ceiling were heavily embossed with intricate decorative mouldings. The margin of timber floor that showed was a rich polished molasses, but it was mainly covered by a beige carpet with red and blue detail. Oil portraits of sternly visaged men in various pre-twentieth century military uniforms hung in wide gilt frames.

  One of them was Montfort. He was wearing his Confederate general’s uniform.

  Two cream four-seater lounges sat opposite each other at right angles to the doorway. Beyond them sat an imposing heavy wooden desk.

  ‘So Gibson has the Redbud desk after all — or a very good copy of it.’ Honeycutt stood next to me. ‘You were on target. Gibson is Montfort’s grandson.’

  ‘But how do we tell if that desk’s a copy or not? If it’s real he doesn’t need Earl’s copy.’

  Honeycutt wasn’t listening to me. He was studying the carpet in front of the desk.

  ‘Do you know what this room is?’

  I looked around, confused. ‘Gibson’s office?’

  ‘What shape is it?’

  I checked. ‘Oval.’

  Honeycutt pointed at the carpet. ‘What does that say?’

  There was a circular shield, or rather a seal, woven into the carpet. It showed an eagle grasping an arrow in one talon and a lightning bolt in the other.

  Around the outer edge of the circle ran: ‘President of the United States of the Americas’.

  47

  THE PACT OF CONTINENTS

  ‘Honeycutt, are you telling me this is a copy of the Oval Office?’

  ‘Sure it’s been modified, Kannon, but this is too close to be anything but completely intentional. I knew that traitorous son of a bitch was —’

  I cut in. Honeycutt was working himself into a fine fury. ‘So you think Gibson wants to refight the Civil War? Take over from President Roosevelt? Is that what this whole Iron Key conspiracy is about?’

  ‘It explains why a nuclear scientist goes missing as soon as she hits US soil. Gibson’s an engineer … Who knows what that plant in Texas is really producing?’

  I stared at the Redbud desk. ‘The only way this could be linked to Earl is if he has the real one.’

  I strode around to the other side of the desk and pushed the chair out for a better view. Honeycutt followed.

  It had exactly the same Latin motto — ‘Nulli Secundus’ — inscribed across the top in a dark red wood inlay.

  ‘Second to None,’ said Honeycutt. ‘Yeah, Gibson has big plans all right.’

  ‘What was that?’

  There were footsteps in the corridor outside. The door started to swing open, sliding our shoulder bags back across the polished wood floor.

  Honeycutt tugged me down with him into the covered legroom under the desk.

  I almost got straight back out again; we were crammed too closely together to defend ourselves. But Honeycutt grabbed me back to whisper in my ear, ‘Wait! Let’s just see why they’re all here.’

  He crawled further forward so he could peer through the fine latticework covering the front of the desk.

  Danger, conspiracies, government secrets …

  Honeycutt was in his element.

  The five men who’d just arrived by car respectfully followed Charles Gibson’s ramrod-straight frame into the New Confederate Oval Office. They trailed after him like flunkies.

  The bald one with horn-rimmed glasses standing next to Gibson said fawningly, ‘So, Mr President, when will he arrive?’

  ‘Don’t be impatient, Nugent,’ snapped Gibson. The bald man’s face fell at the rebuke. ‘He isn’t due for another hour. Throsby will bring our special guest up here as soon as he arrives.’

  ‘That’s Floyd Nugent,’ I whispered. ‘The head of the Hope Foundation —’

  Then I noticed the straps of my green shoulder bag peeking around the edge of the door.

  I sucked in a deep breath. How long before they noticed? We were jammed in under the desk … trapped.

  ‘Gentlemen, please take a seat,’ said Gibson. ‘You all know why we’re here and I want to move through this swiftly.’

  ‘I’ll bring your chair, Mr President,’ said Nugent.

  Honeycutt and I jerked our legs in as far as we could, then exchanged a desperate glance. Our guns were in the backpacks.

  I held my breath. The chair was lifted away …

  Nugent placed the chair a few paces from the front of the desk, at the head of the two parallel couches.

  Gibson sat.

  I exhaled in relief, but Honeycutt seemed too curious to be afraid.

  Which made me afraid for us both. I’d been called reckless in the past but Honeycutt more than matched me.

  And these devils were capable of anything.

  Now that Gibson was seated, his five underlings occupied the two couches. Nugent was careful to place himself closest to Gibson and at his right hand. We could see the back of Gibson and each of the five other men. They were all perched on the edge of their seats — like schoolboys.

  ‘Before we start,’ declared Gibson, ‘Nugent, I want you to report on the status of Operation New Moon.’

  ‘Yes, Mr President.’ Nugent preened himself because he’d been called upon first. ‘By October next year, as planned, everything will be in place to safely implement the takeover. We’ll have men at senior levels of all the targeted government authorities and, due to the overwhelming success of the Hope Foundation, we’ll have fully trained grass-roots support as well.’

  ‘What about communications?’ prompted Gibson, unimpressed. ‘It is absolutely imperative that orders be issued to the undercover operatives without mistake or delay.’

  ‘Certainly, Mr President,’ replied Nugent. His voice was shaking at the implied reprimand. ‘The use of your newspapers and radio programs to deliver encoded messages has proved most effective. Everyone will be armed and ready to do their duty when you give the signal.’

  ‘Good. And arrange for Elden to see me tomorrow. I have another message I want sent out.’

  ‘Yes, sir! And, if I might say so, Mr President, that was a brilliant idea of yours … Elden’s radio plays have become so popular no one could have the slightest suspicion that they’re anything other than light entertainment.’

  Brung … Brung … Brung. The phone on the desk above us had burst into life.

  Gibson rose to answer it. ‘Yes, Throsby. That’s more than an hour early, isn’t it? He’s anxious? That’s good. Bring him in straight away.’

  Gibson hung up.

  ‘Gentlemen, we’ll resume our meeting in a short while. Nugent, take the Cabinet into the War Room. Then I want you to escort our visitor in. Tell Throsby he can wait outside with the guards.’

  The guards? Shit!

  I nudged Honeycutt.

  He was watching Gibson like a tiger watching a juicy wildebeest.

  They all filed out except for Charles Gibson. He stood beneath the portrait of his grandfather and stared up into those pale, pale eyes.

  Honeycutt was wrong. In this situation, we were t
he prey. We had no weapons and now there were undoubtedly armed guards outside that bloody cold room door.

  ‘Honeycutt!’ I elbowed him again. ‘We know who killed Earl now. We’ve got to strike before they find us! Take Gibson hostage … use him to escape!’

  Then Nugent returned. With him was a thin dark man using a cane.

  Honeycutt stared at the new visitor, fascinated. He’d obviously recognised Gibson’s special guest and was drawn back into the treasonous conspiracy unfolding before our eyes.

  I began to panic. We needed an escape plan …

  I grabbed Honeycutt’s wrist and checked that the same infinity symbol was etched into his watch face. Honeycutt wasn’t thinking clearly … If I had to I’d damn well send him back myself!

  ‘Mr President,’ said Nugent ostentatiously. ‘I would like to present the German ambassador, Hans-Heinrich Dieckhoff.’

  My jaw dropped open.

  The German ambassador … in 1939 … somehow connected to a missing nuclear scientist … What the hell was Gibson doing?

  Honeycutt looked like he was ready to detonate.

  Gibson turned away from Monfort’s portrait but slowly enough to indicate his lack of respect.

  Dieckhoff clicked his heels and gave a curt bow. ‘Sir,’ he said in a guttural accent. ‘It is a very great honour to finally meet you. I have heard so much about you over the years.’

  Gibson smiled thinly. ‘Dieckhoff.’ He motioned at the left-hand couch. ‘Please sit.’ He looked at the other man. ‘Nugent, take a seat as well.’ Nugent took his previous place at Gibson’s right hand.

  Gibson sat, calmly crossing his legs. His body language said ‘bored’.

  ‘Sir, please allow me to present the Fuhrer’s compliments,’ gushed Dieckhoff. ‘We will be very happy to see the end of that communist puppet, Roosevelt, and look forward to our new pact with the next president.’ Dieckhoff bowed his head in respect. ‘A pure Aryan politician who believes as we do that —’

  ‘There will only be an agreement,’ stated Gibson with harsh precision, ‘if it is of use to myself and to my country.’

  Dieckhoff glowered, then realigned his features more favourably. ‘But times are changing, Herr Gibson. And you need the goodwill of Germany and Germany’s allies to solidify your position.’