by M. K. Gilroy
Pauline took his proffered arm and they headed down the Via Margutta, a popular side street off the Piazza de Spagna. After a brisk silent walk, they settled in the lobby of the Hotel Manfredi. He asked if she would like to have dinner with him and she said she would be delighted to. They spoke in French until one in the morning. She was charmed that an American could be so fluent in her native tongue. Okay, she knows how to flatter a man’s ego, Burke had recognized.
During their conversation, he learned about her childhood in a home with two alcoholics. He liked that she was honest and direct about her life since age sixteen. She didn’t euphemize what she did for a living, nor did she apologize or glamorize. She didn’t blame. She owned what she had become and took responsibility for her life. She didn’t whine that she had only received half her fee for her time with the Italian businessman. She let Burke know that she was looking for a way out of the business.
Burke felt he was a good judge of people and he believed her. He hoped it wasn’t just because she was so beautiful. Oh, was she beautiful.
Burke was attracted to her but unexpectedly felt a pang of his long lost sense of honor and morality. He registered a room for her at the Manfredi and told her to get checked in. Then he went back to the Hassler, picked the lock to her room, and packed her suitcase while the Italian businessman cursed and threatened him in at least five languages. But he never left the velvet loveseat after Burke ordered him to sit and not move. The man still looked a little squeamish.
Burke delivered her luggage to the front desk of the Manfredi, arranged transportation to the airport in the morning for her, and left a confirmation number for a first class seat to Luxemburg. He paid for everything.
He wasn’t sure he would ever talk to Pauline again, but he kept her number. He wanted to connect with her a number of times in the year that followed but could never bring himself to make contact. In his world you didn’t purposely pursue entanglements and complications. But then he needed her to help him set the honey trap for Alexander. It was not lost on him that she could pass for a twenties version of Alexander’s wife, Helena. He called to set up a meeting time.
The negotiation for her services was painful. He sensed that maybe she had thought of him over the past year as well and was hoping the purpose of his call was for a different, less tainted reason. Again, he might think that she had real feelings for him because he wanted to believe it, creating a false sense of guilt. Whether or not that was the case, he was not proud of himself for what he was asking her to do.
You have a strange way of telling a girl you like her, Burke said to himself. What in the world happened to you?
But they agreed to a deal. It was her means to a new life. It was the highest subcontractor fee he had ever paid. Two million euros. He wondered if Pauline and he could start over after the operation and see each other with fresh eyes. Doubtful. By enlisting her as a high priced escort he had closed that door. What was he supposed to say? I know that I used to be your pimp, but believe me, all I ever wanted was to get to know you better. He shook his head in disgust.
It was an outrageous idea to connect with someone after being disjointed so emphatically by what he had asked her to do. He wasn’t sure what the road back to normal human interaction would be for him with her or anyone else.
“You look preoccupied, darling,” the blonde said. “Can I help take your mind off something?”
“I’m not sure there’s any chance of that, but thank you for the offer.”
“Was that an offer I just made?”
“Pardon me. I was presumptuous.”
She laughed. “Of course it was an offer. A standing offer. I’ve been told I can be very helpful. Was it a woman who hurt you? We can be such bitches.”
“I’m sure you know how to help me, but not tonight.”
She looked hurt.
“Let me buy you a drink,” Burke said.
“Get another one for yourself and maybe you’ll change your mind,” she said with a pouty expression that was overridden by a twinkle in her eyes.
He caught the bartender’s eye and pointed at both glasses.
He had a man watching Alexander’s townhome and another sitting at the bar in Per Se down the street. Why? Pauline wasn’t on the return flight with Alexander. Face it. She had been caught and had been taken somewhere private and impossible to find for some excruciatingly painful questioning. Or she was already dead. Simple as that. It was his fault.
Burke looked at his phone again. Nothing.
“You really aren’t talkative, sweetheart. She must have done a real number on you.”
He had almost forgotten about the blonde, impossible as she was making that. He shook his head no and confirmed the answer to her question by saying nothing. This was obviously his cue to leave. He was past trying to pretend to fit in as a lonely heart looking for a pickup. He pulled a hundred from his wallet and put it on the bar as the drinks arrived.
He decided to check on his men working the street and then head back to Harlem.
“Aren’t you even going to say goodbye?” the blonde asked to his back.
Nope. I’m not.
There would be no extraction from Per Se, a restaurant on Columbus Circle and one of the City’s finest. He already knew Alexander had cancelled dinner reservations. There would be no snatching her off the street in front of Alexander’s townhome on 67th Street. She didn’t walk off the plane. She wasn’t in the City.
Why did I involve her in this? Why didn’t I call her when I wanted to get to know her for her own sake?
He walked out the door, ready to disappear into the night.
The blonde watched him exit, picked up her phone, and made a call.
28
Devil’s Den Hiking Trail,
the Ozark National Forest
THE SWISS ARE FAMED FOR luxury goods, secretive banks, expensive watches, chocolates, political neutrality, and Swiss Army knives. Despite the ubiquitous red acetate butyrate casing that houses magnifying glasses, toothpicks, saws, screwdrivers, and a host of other tools, including the promised knife, the namesake Swiss Army does not command the same international reputation as the knife, primarily because the Swiss Army does not take part in armed conflicts on foreign soil.
Despite being best known for making expensive timepieces, the Swiss do take their military seriously. Ninety-five percent of their armed forces are conscripts who function as the world’s largest militia per capita. At the end of two years of active service, all soldiers keep their weapons and military equipment at home—subject to unannounced inspection—as part of their agreement to continue serving in the militia.
At age eighteen, all Swiss males found physically and emotionally fit for service are drafted into the military and spend half a year in training and up to another eighteen months in active service. In rare cases, when all forms of national military service are exempted, the male citizen pays an extra three percent in federal taxes until age thirty. When a national referendum to abolish the draft came to vote in 2013, it was devastatingly defeated with seventy-three percent of voters indicating they believed it was best to keep the draft in place.
Jules did his two years of military service, excelled, and started down a professional career track in the army. He ultimately found the Swiss Army experience to be too inactive. What was the point of learning a craft but never actually doing it?
Jules was a man at sea after the debacle with being rejected by the Swiss Guard. He wondered if the mysterious and brutal murder of the Bishop of Basel could ever be linked to him. Not a chance.
Based on a tip from a friend, he used all the money he had saved and traveled to Fairfax, Virginia. He didn’t have an appointment, but after a human resources specialist made time to meet with him, he was hired immediately after he blew away the physical by DynCorp, a private military company. He had found a temporary home. DynCorp did contract work for various governments in exotic destinations like Bosnia, Afghanistan, and Iraq, ostensib
ly to do security work, but routinely—and off the books—to take part in armed combat on foreign soil.
He still didn’t know how Alexander found him, but the great man reached out to Jules through a firm that recruited security professionals. Nothing was ever said, but it was clear that Mr. Alexander desired the services of someone comfortable in both reactive and proactive defense roles. The employer and employee found a match made in heaven—or hell, depending on one’s point of view.
At the moment Jules appeared as impassive as a rock in the eyes of the men who were conducting a two-headed search for Pauline—boots on the ground and drones in the air. But inside his emotions were roiling between rage and shame.
When he knew he’d lost Pauline, he returned to the place he first spotted her, removed the silencer from his Sig Sauer P220, and holstered the weapon. He knelt down and gently placed Mr. Alexander’s leather portfolio and Pauline’s smartphone and fanny pack in a leather shoulder satchel. Her driver had been dismissed and been told Pauline wanted to spend the day walking the trail instead of running it. He told Mr. Alexander’s driver a different story, that she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to return to the plane. He needed both men out of the area immediately, but telling two stories was just one of his mistakes this trip. At some point the two men would talk and notice the discrepancy.
Mr. Alexander had given him his marching orders to eliminate the discrepancy. Only one man had to die, unless it was determined they had spoken to each other and possibly compared notes.
He worked with Klaus to get a search team on the ground within a few hours. He let Mr. Alexander know he needed to stay and coordinate the hunt. Alexander agreed immediately. A first. Alexander liked Jules close to his side. His rage burned brighter at the thought the man might turn elsewhere for protection.
Has he written me off? Is he looking for my replacement? All I can do is regain his trust.
Jules realized his biggest mistake was the fact that Pauline was still part of Alexander’s world. The boss hadn’t wanted to listen to him when he expressed concerns about her. He should have made himself heard. That’s what a good soldier does. Jules didn’t think Alexander was losing his keen ruthlessness—both hideous and beautiful to behold—but he knew big things were underway and there is only so much one man can keep in his sight lines. That’s why he was needed. Whether ascribed by Alexander or not, Jules determined to take full responsibility not only for bungling her capture, but also for allowing an enemy inside the camp.
Unacceptable.
She was wounded. She had no known way to communicate to the outside world and call for help. If she did, the team already had a man in Arkansas law enforcement who would alert them to her whereabouts. She was in the middle of a state park—or maybe the National Forest by now—that had no commercial or residential development for miles.
They needed to find her, dead or alive. Both options were preferable to the debilitating state of not knowing.
If they found her dead, he would bury her in the Ozark Mountains—and keep a single eyeball, tooth, and fingertip to add to his collection. Men brought souvenirs of war home with them. Why should his needs be different even if he didn’t wear a uniform anymore?
He swore in his mind again that he would personally punish whoever was responsible for this affront. Anything done against Mr. Alexander was an act against Jules.
He hadn’t slept for nearly twenty-four hours. That didn’t matter. A soldier sleeps when he can and stays awake as long as it takes to kill and not be killed.
There was nothing more he could do to assist in the search. It was time to pay a visit on a professional driver who watched too closely and asked too many questions. He would then drive up the highway to Bentonville to take care of Garrison.
29
New York City
“JONTO! RELAX. THIS IS NOTHING more than a minor setback,” a voice with a thick accent said over the phone. Despite his jocularity, the caller was nervous. How was he to know the man was writing something of import in his journal?
Alexander’s look was impassive. He said nothing into the phone line. He and Nicky were in the office of his Upper Eastside townhome.
Nicky sat across from him—dark, handsome, patient, loyal, and deadly. He had just reported on his time in the Saudi Peninsula. Something was going right. His boy had done well. Good kid, even if he wasn’t a kid anymore—he had worked for him for almost twenty years.
Nicky had been a blur of activity on his chartered flight from Cairo and once he hit the ground. He ordered Jules off the hunt for Pauline to take care of other pressing matters. He dispatched trusted men from Geneva to Luxemburg. He quickly set up a defensive network around the townhome. He gave explicit directions on how Pauline’s recovered phone was to be handled.
Maybe the boy is ready to assume executive duties.
Nicky’s father and Alexander’s older brother, Nikolai, wanted little Nicky to be everything he wasn’t, especially legitimate. Alexander was happy to support his brother’s wishes. He paid his nephew’s way to London School of Economics—it cost almost as much to get him admitted as it did to pay for the hefty tuition. Nicky showed great promise at the LSE—just not as a student. Street work was in his blood, just as obviously as legitimacy ran through the blood of Alexander’s own son. Nicky hustled the proven ways to make money on the wrong side of the law while in London: girls, guns, and gambling. Alexander’s machine got Nicky out of there in one piece, with no arrest record and a shiny diploma from LSE.
Alexander tried to reason with his brother that there were better ways to employ Nicky’s gifts, but the man would not be moved. So Alexander moved Nicky from position to position in his vast network of companies, keeping a close eye to see if there was a perfect match. To his brother’s grave disappointment, there wasn’t. Except on the side of the law the two brothers had scrabbled up, Nikolai with many slips and stumbles along the way, Jonathan—Jonto—a sure-footed irresistible force. More often than not, brother Nikolai heeded the siren call that had shipwrecked their father. The bottle. Didn’t matter if it was ouzo, vodka, wine, moonshine or Japanese whiskey. One innocent sip always led to the entire bottle.
His father’s way was not for Nicky. It wasn’t that he was lazy. He was a disciplined worker—as long as the work wasn’t based in an office and as long as it involved guns, knives, fists, fast cars, secrecy, coercion, evasion, and a late night rendezvous with a beautiful woman as a cherry on the top.
Alexander was not unsympathetic of his brother’s plight. After all, his own son wasn’t wired the same way as his father either. Along with his wife, Alexander loved his son as much as he could love anyone. He wasn’t disappointed—maybe a little relieved—that he picked up his mother’s basic goodness with none of his own ruthlessness. He was the son his brother Nikolai had wanted so desperately.
Alexander knew he had to protect both himself and his son, so when he sent Jonathan Jr. to the Wharton Business School at the University of Pennsylvania, it was with a new and perfectly legal name, Jason Anderson.
To the world, Alexander’s son, Jonathan Jr., Johnny, was dead. That took some delicate work in the aftermath of the car crash that had stolen the beauty and mind of his beloved wife, Helena, a onetime model and B-level European film actress. Alexander didn’t flinch when called to the scene of the wreckage, but instantly saw and seized the opportunity to protect his progeny. He put an iron curtain around the crash site outside of Nice, France. The first responder, a public servant of modest means, had a daughter who was of university age and he was easily motivated to assist. Other bribes were paid to allow Alexander’s hastily assembled technical team to investigate and report on the tragic accident.
Helena, I would have granted you freedom to pursue another life. You didn’t have to do what you did.
It took Klaus less than 24 hours to find a body to play the role of young Jonathan. A teenager had crashed a BMW racing motorbike weeks earlier. His parents were already close to pulling t
he plugs on the life support that was maintaining his vegetative state. It was not hard to provide an inducement to do the inevitable. With gentle maneuvering, the boy was declared dead, his body sent to a crematorium. What the technician on duty put into the ovens Alexander didn’t know or want to know. He sincerely hoped the parents believed the ashes in the urn were the remains of their son.
The young man’s actual body was described in detail as part of the accident report.
The world press wrote moving accounts of Alexander’s great tragedy; his son dead and his wife in a near comatose state.
Alexander hastily secreted Jonathan Jr. to the one place no one but a few trusted advisors knew about; the Isle of Patmos. Birthplace of his own father. Alexander dreaded the conversation with Jonathan Jr. to let him know the mechanizations he put in place that would force him to embrace a new identity. The talk went surprisingly well. Helena had not kept her husband’s brutal past nor present as a secret from their son. He jumped at the opportunity to become a new man, set apart from the shadow of his father.
Did that hurt? Of course. But Alexander knew that greatness— immortality—required profound sacrifices.
Loss was also something he was acquainted with from his earliest days. He and Nikolai were actually half brothers—some people found even that hard to believe with Nikolai’s tangled shock of black hair and Roman nose in contrast to Jonathan’s thin nose and fair features that he inherited from his mother. No two brothers could look less alike.
Nikolai’s mom had died in childbirth. A year later, a nineteen-year old French beauty had fallen for the dark, swarthy Greek fisherman she met in a harbor café in the city of Skiathos. She and the boys’ father embarked on a passionate love affair that spawned Jonathan. After Jonto’s birth, his father resolved again to quit the bottle, which made him a raging bear to live with in contrast to his gentle drunkenness. His mother had enough sooner than later and was gone before Alexander reached his second birthday. All that remained of her for Alexander was a faded photograph on the day she and his father had posed with him for his baptism.
