Deadly Echoes

by Philip Donlay

  “We have to find who did this,” William gripped Donovan by the wrist. “We have to find them and deal with them ourselves.”

  Donovan looked into the familiar eyes. For nearly thirty-five years William had been Donovan’s father figure and mentor. They’d ridden the trials and adversity of what at the time felt like the worst events that life could exact, and they’d both survived. William represented the moral and intellectual epicenter of Donovan’s life, the man had crafted the values that shaped his life, and in all of that time, he’d never seen William as quietly enraged as he was this very moment—nor so resolute about wanting these people to answer for what they’d done.

  “We’ll find them,” Donovan said. “And, I promise you, they’ll pay.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Aaron! What are you doing in Paris?” Lauren was genuinely surprised when Henri, her chief of security, led her benefactor, and senior Mossad agent into the foyer. Her security detail stayed in the apartment across the hall when Lauren was in for the evening. They used cameras to monitor all entry and exit points of the building. This time of the evening all access to this floor of the building was sealed off so any visitor needed an escort.

  “Can’t I drop in and visit my favorite American in France?” Aaron kissed her on both cheeks.

  “This is my friend Stephanie,” Lauren said, motioning Aaron into the kitchen. “Stephanie, this is Aaron Keller.”

  Aaron nodded respectfully. “The niece of William VanGelder, it’s an honor to meet you.”

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” Lauren asked.

  Aaron shook his head. “I’m here on business actually. May we sit?”

  “I’ll give you two some privacy,” Stephanie said.

  “You can stay.” Aaron gestured toward a chair. “This pertains to you as well.”

  “Aaron, what is it?” Lauren asked, worried.

  “There’s news from the investigation in Hawaii. We received a bulletin from the FBI about the death of Mrs. Beverly Stratton and her flight crew. They were all found murdered in Southern California.”

  “Wait, I thought she was in Hawaii,” Lauren said.

  “First John and now Beverly?” Stephanie’s hand shot to her mouth.

  “I’m so sorry to have to be the one to tell you.” Aaron turned to Lauren. “When did you last speak to your husband?”

  Lauren didn’t like the question and she felt herself shift into a different mind-set, the one she hated. One that involved lies, half-truths, not trusting anyone. “He called me yesterday morning, when he heard about John Stratton.”

  Aaron pulled several 5 x 7 photographs from his jacket pocket. “These are some surveillance photos sent by the FBI. Please look at them and tell me if any of these people look familiar.”

  Lauren studied the pictures. She didn’t recognize the men. Stephanie shook her head as well.

  “How about this one?” Aaron handed over another photo.

  The image showed a woman, Lauren thought maybe in her early thirties with short, dark hair. The woman looked striking, almost beautiful, though something in her eyes seemed dangerous, maybe even reptilian, but Lauren didn’t recognize her. Most troubling to Lauren was the fact that Aaron had personally delivered the photographs; he could have simply sent them to Henri to show her. If she had to guess, Aaron was on some kind of fishing expedition.

  “Who is she?” Stephanie handed the photo back to Aaron.

  “We think she’s connected to one of the men photographed in Hawaii, the guy with the dark glasses and curly hair. It’s generally thought they’re Eastern European and over the last ten years or so, through vague descriptions and grainy images like this, we’ve linked them to at least a dozen deaths. We’re sure they’re professional killers, but we don’t know if they’re backed by some governmental organization or strictly freelance.”

  “A professional assassin was hired to kill John and Beverly?” Stephanie asked. “Was this woman also involved in the incident aboard the fishing vessel?”

  “We don’t know how, but we believe the events are somehow related.”

  “What’s Mossad’s interest?” Lauren asked.

  “We believe the woman played a part in the deaths of staffers who worked at a medical clinic in Dusseldorf, Germany. The doctor there was a friend of Tel Aviv, and at times we called upon him for discreet medical needs. From what we’ve learned from our friends at the FBI and Interpol, Eco-Watch is being targeted, and if this man and woman are part of that equation—both of you are at risk.”

  “Is there anything we should be doing?” Lauren asked.

  “No, just be vigilant. I’ve already spoken to Henri. Your protective detail understands the threat.” Aaron stood. “I have another pressing engagement and must leave. Again, I apologize for the hour. Good night.”

  Lauren and Stephanie stood as Aaron bowed and showed himself out. They didn’t speak until they heard the front door close.

  Stephanie faced Lauren and stood with her hands on her hips. “Now, back to the real question of the evening. Mossad drops in to say hello? What in the hell is going on?”

  “I’m not sure. But if Mossad is in the mix, Donovan should be told.” Lauren reached for her phone. After trying three numbers, someone picked up. She was greeted by the familiar voice of Howard Buckley.

  “Buck, it’s Lauren. I’m trying to find Donovan.”

  “Is everything okay?” Buck asked.

  “I’m fine. I just need to pass along some information.”

  “He’s up in the cockpit with Michael. Hang on, I’ll go tell him you’re on the line.”

  “Where are they?” Stephanie asked.

  “I dialed the satellite link onboard the da Vinci. So they’re flying somewhere.”

  “Hello,” Donovan said as he came on the line.

  “Sorry to intrude while you’re working, but I needed to talk to you,” Lauren said.

  “What’s up?” Donovan asked.

  “I’m here in the apartment with Stephanie.” Lauren chose her words carefully. “I just got a visit from Aaron Keller.”

  “Oh, really?”

  During his one encounter with the Mossad agent, Keller had done nothing but lie and try to maneuver him. Donovan wasn’t a big fan.

  “What did he have to say?”

  “He’s very interested and well briefed on finding the people who killed Beverly and John Stratton. Mossad thinks they have knowledge of one of the men in the FBI’s pictures. The guy with longish curly hair—he works with a woman. Aaron thinks they’re both assassins, and the woman is a person of interest in a case in Dusseldorf, Germany, where workers at a clinic were murdered.”

  “Really? What kind of clinic?”

  “A medical clinic. That’s where it gets interesting, Aaron admitted that the doctor there had ties to Israel, and did some work for Mossad. I gathered by his tone that it was all off the books.”

  “So Keller told you about Beverly?”

  “Yes, that’s so sad. Tell William that Stephanie and I are really very sorry.”

  “I’ll tell him. I can’t help but wonder if we looked at this clinic, we might be able to get a better clue who this woman is, and why she’s attacking Eco-Watch. I hate to ask, but it might be really helpful if you could do a little digging. See what you can learn.”

  “I could do that.”

  “If you don’t want to be involved, I understand.”

  “I’m already involved,” Lauren replied. Donovan was asking her to use her resources in the intelligence community. Something she’d already intended to do. “Where are you, anyway?’

  “We’re headed to Orange County. William is a trustee for the Stratton estate and needs to be there.” Donovan said. “How’s Abigail? Is she asleep?”

  “Yes, it’s late here. It’s always a full day when Stephanie is here to spoil her. She’s good, I’ll tell her you said hello.”

  “Thanks for the call. I’ll be in touch,” Donovan said.

 
“How did he sound?” Stephanie asked as soon as Lauren disconnected the call.

  “He sounds tired.”

  “What next?”

  “I need my laptop. I’ll meet you in the kitchen; I’m going to need some wine.” Lauren went into her bedroom and sat, turning the phone over in her hand several times while she contemplated her next move. When she’d left Washington, her boss within the Defense Intelligence Agency had refused her resignation. Instead, he put her on an indefinite leave of absence. As a DIA analyst living on foreign soil, she’d been given several contact numbers. A man named Fredrick had visited from the embassy. After she’d double-checked his credentials, he’d detailed various ways she could reach him if she needed. He’d given her the code name Pegasus.

  Fredrick’s phone number began with a 703 area code, which was Northern Virginia and was most likely a secure router at Langley that would forward calls. She contemplated her request. Mossad had deemed it important enough to pay her a visit, and if nothing else, the CIA might be interested in that fact. She dialed, and before she could change her mind, a computerized voice asked her to leave a message.

  “It’s Pegasus. I’m going to follow this up with an e-mail. Talk to you soon.”

  Laptop in hand, Lauren found Stephanie in the kitchen with a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. Lauren opened her computer and sat down. As the screen blinked to life, Stephanie poured red wine into their glasses.

  Lauren typed in a few key words and found what they were looking for, and moments later they were both reading about the arson and multiple murders at the Klasen-Drescher clinic in Dusseldorf, Germany, six months ago. There wasn’t much to the report, twelve bodies had been found inside by firefighters, and were so badly burned that the task of identifying the victims was nearly impossible. The police had no leads and had appealed to the public for information. Lauren clicked to pictures of the clinic the day after the fire; not a single wall remained standing.

  Lauren composed an e-mail to Fredrick, asking about the clinic and explaining Mossad’s interest. She hit send and several minutes later a return e-mail arrived. It was from Fredrick.

  That Mossad visit is curious. I’ll get back to you.

  “What now?” Stephanie said as she sipped her wine.

  “We wait.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Donovan matched the speed of the Gulfstream with the Delta Airlines 757 he was following, knowing there was a Southwest 737 doing the same thing right behind them. The typical arrival sequence for John Wayne Airport. Donovan had lived in Los Angeles for years as a young man, but once he’d left, he’d never missed Southern California, and today was no exception. All that lay in the hills and beaches that stretched out below were the painful memories of Robert Huntington and Meredith Barnes.

  For the last hour, Buck had been on the phone between Eco-Watch Headquarters in Virginia and the Eco-Watch ship Pacific Titan located in Seward, Alaska. The Pacific Titan had been attempting to leave port when several small boats attacked and managed to foul the propellers of the two-hundred-seventy-four-foot vessel. Crippled and dead in the water except for the bow thrusters, the alert crew had immediately dropped anchor and brought the ship to a stop. According to the information coming in to Buck, initial reports were that the attacks were carried out by what was suspected to be local fisherman, protesting Eco-Watch’s presumed tactics against their livelihood.

  Donovan, wanting to get free from Buck, had suggested Buck get to Alaska to protect the crew of the Pacific Titan and oversee the repairs. Buck had agreed. They’d called Peggy to make the airline arrangements, and further communications had resulted in an FBI promise to rush Buck from the da Vinci to LAX, so he could catch his flight to Anchorage.

  With the FBI waiting, Donovan knew it was going to be hectic once they landed, so he did his best to stay in the moment and do what he loved most, which was to fly. He drank in the late afternoon sun reflecting off the Pacific Ocean as he slid in above and behind the Delta 757 and called for the final landing check.

  As soon as the da Vinci cleared the active runway, Donovan saw the crowd. It had been no secret they’d departed Kauai bound for John Wayne. In the nearly five hours it had taken them to make the trip, hundreds of people had gathered. It looked as if an entire parking lot south of the main terminal had succumbed to the masses. Donovan spotted the array of antennas snaking upward above the fray, marking the position of the media, poised for their footage and overblown rhetoric. He guided the da Vinci toward the spot on the ramp where the FBI would be waiting.

  As Donovan eased the Gulfstream to a stop and shut down both engines, he enjoyed the ebb of adrenaline that told him he’d safely arrived after a long flight. Michael was up and out of the cockpit first and stood behind Buck as the former SEAL saw to the task of opening the door and lowering the air-stair to the tarmac. Donovan was thankful that the waiting crowds and media were actually behind the airplane, though off to his left, people lined up along the perimeter fence brandished signs of condemnation. Others were simply taking pictures. As soon as the door was fully opened, three black SUVs pulled up, and men in dark suits wearing communications earpieces piled out of the vehicles and took up positions at the foot of the stairs. Michael and William descended to the tarmac and began shaking hands as the crowd noise rose with protesters’ chants.

  Donovan slipped out of the cockpit, threw on a light jacket, then knelt, and pulled the carpet up from the corner of the forward closet. He typed in the password for the safe he’d had installed and opened the heavy door. Inside was the exact same model of the forty-caliber Sig Sauer that he kept at home. He slid the pistol under his belt in the small of his back and pulled his jacket down to cover it up. He snapped up two extra clips, closed the compartment, and smoothed the carpet back into place.

  Donovan put the clips into his briefcase just moments before Buck returned. Buck was about to say something when he stopped, furrowed his brow, then nodded toward the small of Donovan’s back.

  “Where’d you get the gun?”

  “I bought it months ago,” Donovan replied, impressed that it took Buck all of three seconds to notice.

  “We both know it’s not legal for you to carry in California. Is it even registered?”

  “No,” Donovan replied.

  “Don’t forget to wipe down each shell casing, as well as the clip. People always forget to do that. Use it if you need it, and remember everything I taught you.”

  “I will.”

  “Michael wants you outside. He says we have a problem.”

  Donovan hurried down the steps and the noise from protesters rose yet again. Police were eyeing the crowd, making sure no one decided to try to climb the fence. Donovan turned away and spotted Michael crouched underneath the left main landing gear. As he ducked under the wing, he saw what had caught Michael’s eye. A pool of thick reddish fluid had collected on the ground around the tires.

  “Hydraulic fluid?” Donovan asked as he knelt next to Michael, dipped a finger into the liquid, and tested the consistency.

  “Yeah, it’s leaking from up there.” Michael pointed up to where the strut slid inside the main gear housing. “We need to get it looked at before we go anywhere.”

  “I agree.”

  “You go with William. He needs you more than I do right now,” Michael said. “I’ll get on the phone with Gulfstream over in Long Beach. They’ll get some people over here to fix this.”

  “Keep me in the loop.” Donovan put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “And don’t forget to get some rest. Who knows when or where we’re headed next.”

  “You too. I’ll call you later when I know more.”

  Donovan said good-bye to Buck and climbed into the back of an SUV where William was waiting. From the front passenger’s seat, a clean-shaven black man in his early to mid-forties slid off his sunglasses and extended his hand over the seat. “I’m FBI Special Agent Edward Wells.”

  “This was certainly not the reception we expected,” William
said.

  Wells slid his dark glasses back on. “This is the biggest demonstration we’ve seen so far.”

  “Wait,” Donovan asked. “There have been other protests here in Southern California?”

  “All over the world actually,” Wells replied. “Eco-Watch has become a flashpoint for both sides of the environmental debate, but other than a few isolated arrests here in L.A., the protests have been without incident. Before I forget, Hudson sent a picture from a surveillance photo from the airport in Kauai. It’s Mrs. Stratton boarding her jet with an unknown female companion. Do either of you recognize the woman?”

  Donovan and William shook their heads. The woman was nicely dressed, slender, athletic looking with dark hair. She wore large rimmed sunglasses that obscured most of her face. “Any chance you can get an ID from this?” Donovan asked as he handed the picture back to Wells.

  “We’re working on it.”

  His phone rang and Donovan pulled it from his jacket, half hoping it was Lauren. Instead, he discovered a number he didn’t recognize. The area code was 714, Southern California. “Nash here.”

  “Robert, just think, soon you’ll be able to drop all the pretense and use your real name,” the man said. “I just wanted to call and ask you a question. Do the pictures I’ve left bother you, seeing the innocent girl you’d later kill? Tomorrow is her birthday. Do you ever light a candle for the woman you murdered?”

  “What can I do for you?” Donovan asked, struggling to control his rising anger.

  “I do have one question. Does Lauren know about your past? Does she know about Meredith? How about Abigail? She has a birthday coming up as well, doesn’t she? I wonder what she’ll think of her father when she’s old enough to realize what you’ve done. I think she’ll be horrified, as will the rest of the world. She, too, will grow up an orphan, though I have to believe she’ll be relieved by your death. I know I will. Though I’m in no hurry, when I do finally kill you, it’ll be up close and personal. You’ll be all alone like Meredith was when she died. Scared and alone, a broken man, the world calling for your head. You’ll welcome the bullet.”