by J. C. Fields
The room was the Presidential Suite at the Raphael Hotel on Ward Parkway, barely a ten-minute walk from their condos. There was a table with seating for four waiting for them as they entered the dining area. Pleasantries were exchanged as a steward poured wine. When he finished and stepped out of the room, the President said, “I was informed last week that, despite Director Stumpf’s delay tactics, you have chosen to retire. Is this correct, Sean?”
Kruger nodded.
The President took a sip of wine. “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s disappointing, but understandable.”
Kruger remained silent.
“I don’t believe I had the opportunity to personally thank you for preventing this country from experiencing another 9/11. Thank you.”
“I didn’t do it alone, sir. I had an outstanding team. They deserve the credit.”
“I appreciate your attitude, Sean. Trust me, we need more individuals like you in public service. Too many want the credit without doing anything to deserve it.”
Kruger stared at his wine glass. Stephanie looked at him with apprehension.
“May I be frank with you, Sean?”
“Of course, sir.”
“You are too young to be retiring. Particularly at this time. Since the incident in Fayetteville, we’ve uncovered a serious threat to our country. The short-sightedness of our congressional leaders after the Great Recession has created an environment of discontent in our inner cities. Plus the scrutiny of the news media over the past few years on isolated incidents of law enforcement excesses has also contributed to this discontent.”
“I was told about this several days ago.”
The President smiled. “Good, then I won’t bore you with details. We have a mutual friend, the individual who recruited you for the FBI who—”
Kruger frowned. “You know Joseph?”
“Yes, very well.”
“I knew he had connections, but I had no idea he knew you.”
Chuckling, the President nodded. “Yes, we go back a long way. I assume you know what he does for me?”
“No, not really. He’s always kept that part of himself a closed book. At least to me.”
“And to everyone else, from what I understand. He’s very trustworthy.”
Kruger nodded, “That he is. What does all this have to do with me?”
“A valid question.” The President paused and smiled slightly. “I want you to re-evaluate your decision to retire.”
“With all due respect, sir, no. I’ve made a commitment to Stephanie and I will not break it.”
“I respect that decision. But I’m not asking you to return to the FBI. There are other, let’s say, opportunities, I would like for you to consider.”
“What do you mean, other opportunities?”
“The reason I wanted both of you here is because it would require a move. You would be on the staff of a large university in a city in the center of the country. The position has already been approved by the president of the university and the head of the Psychology Department. They are completely on-board with the idea. You would have a flexible teaching schedule with plenty of graduate students to fill in for you. And you would report to me and only me.”
Kruger tilted his head to the side. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Let me explain.”
After the President completed his proposal, Kruger looked at Stephanie. She smiled, nodded and reached for his hand. Kruger returned his attention to the President and said, “I think we would like to pursue this further.”
The President smiled.
Epilogue
Paris, France
Two months later
Retired Special Forces Major Benedict “Sandy” Knoll sat at a small table outside a busy bistro at the intersection of Boulevard Saint-Germain and Boulevard Saint-Michel. He sipped his espresso and watched an apartment building three blocks away. It was approaching noon, and traffic at the intersection was heavy.
At exactly 11:45 a.m., a man exited the apartment building wearing a white dishdasha and white taqiyah. Casually keeping an eye on the figure, Knoll heard two squelches from his ear bud as the white-clad cleric started walking toward the intersection. It was the signal from a watcher outside the apartment building confirming the man was their target. Raising his coffee cup to his lips, he spoke into a microphone attached to the cuff of his sleeve. “Package is on time. Confirmed as the correct item.”
His words traveled to a nearby van which amplified the signal and beamed it toward a satellite in synchronous orbit high above Paris. The satellite relayed the signal to another one high over Washington, D.C., all in a fraction of the time it took to speak the words.
In a room deep under the White House, four men sat in front of a flat-screen TV watching a detailed satellite image of the intersection in Paris. Twin small speakers broadcast Knoll’s words. Joseph looked at the President of the United States and said, “What do you want to do, sir?”
The President was quiet. He glanced at FBI Director Paul Stumpf and CIA Director Admiral Jeffery Reardon, and both men nodded slightly. Returning his attention to the scene on the TV, the President said, “Proceed.”
Joseph looked at his watch. It was 5:50 a.m. Eastern time. He leaned over and spoke into a small microphone.
“Green light.”
Sandy Knoll heard the reply in his earbud and sat the coffee cup down. He placed a five euro note under the cup and waited. When the white-clad cleric passed by the bistro, Knoll casually stood and followed him.
The man under surveillance was Saleel Ghani, a militant Islamic cleric, whose last place of residence was San Francisco, California. He was also the Imam who had recruited three men to help Aazim Abbas attack Bud Walton Arena over four months ago. His arrival in Paris had gone unnoticed by the French General Directorate for Internal Security until he started inflaming French Muslims about pursuing jihad. Now on a watch list, his name had been passed on to the CIA and MI6.
The President said, “How did you find him, Joseph?”
“The third driver, a 19-year-old from San Francisco named Abdul Bahri, gave us his name. The DGSI notified us of Ghani’s presence in Paris. Apparently, Bahri was not enthusiastic about volunteering for the mission. He told a team of FBI interrogators how Ghani shamed him into volunteering. Then when this young man expressed doubts about blowing himself up for the cause, Ghani threatened his family. When we learned where Ghani was, I sent Major Knoll and three members of this team to watch him.”
The President remained quiet, his concentration completely on the TV monitor.
“They know where he’s going,” Joseph continued. “The Imam is a creature of habit. He’s walking to mid-day prayers at his mosque. He does it every day at exactly 11:45 a.m.”
Knoll kept his distance behind the Imam until he saw what he was waiting for. He quickened his pace and closed the gap until he was directly behind Ghani. A large delivery truck was speeding down Boulevard Saint-Germain toward the cleric. Ghani, as was his habit, walked close to the street to avoid being touched by infidels on the sidewalk. As the truck grew closer, Knoll stepped up behind the Imam and discreetly placed his hand on the man’s back. With a puzzled look on his face, the Imam began to turn just as Knoll shoved him into the path of the large truck.
Joseph and the three other men in the room watched as the truck slammed into the stumbling Imam. The body was pushed ahead of the truck and crushed before the driver could apply the brakes.
They watched as Knoll continued walking away from the accident.
The President closed his eyes and said, “How many more were involved?”
Joseph did not smile as he spoke, “He is the only one we are positive about. I’m sure there are more. But the trail is cold right now.”
Standing, the President nodded.
“Find them, Joseph. Find them and make them go away.”
THE END
THE IMPOSTOR’S TRAIL
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the next generation:
Mikey, Chloe, Peyton and Alice.
Your presence gives me hope for the future.
Acknowledgments
Everyone should have a passion. Mine is writing. My love of writing started in my teens, continuing through college. Lacking confidence in my abilities with a pen and graduating during a particularly difficult retrenching of the United States economy, I put my passion aside.
The passion was rekindled around the turn of the century when everyone thought Y2K would cause all life on earth to cease. It didn’t.
During the years since I have made the acquaintance of numerous groups and individuals who helped accelerate my journey as a writer.
I tip my hat to the following:
The Springfield Writers’ Guild. Before I joined, I was writing in a vacuum. No one was giving knowledgeable feedback on my prose. I remember the first piece I submitted to Mentor Hour, it was ripped to shreds. BUT, it helped me understand what I was doing wrong.
Wayne Groner, friend, mentor, and former newscast announcer, is a member of the Guild. He took me under his wing and assisted my growth as a novelist with the simple phrase, “It’s over-written.”
Kwen Griffeth is a fellow author, friend, and critique partner. His varied careers, including military and civilian police, have helped his development as a magnificent story-teller. He can read a chapter and tell me to move this part here and another part there. Suddenly the story flows.
To my editorial team: Emily Truscott and Norma Eaton. Emily handles the heavy lifting with developmental edits. Norma continues as my line editor and beta reader, tasks she has endured for all three novels. She fine tunes the manuscript and provides a first review.
Not sure I would have three books published without Sharon Kizziah-Holmes, owner of Paperback-Press. She believed in the project from the beginning and has been the publisher for all three novels. Thank you, Sharon.
Niki Fowler, a graphic artist extraordinaire, created all three covers and provided the Trail series with its unique look.
As with the previous two novels, I give thanks for my wife Connie. She keeps me grounded and reminds me there are other important events in our lives besides my books. She continues to be my best friend and partner in life.
Part 1
St. Louis, MO
Six Years Ago
Paul Bishop parked the rented Kia Rio next to the lake and stared across the water in the pale early light of dawn following another sleepless night. Geese swooped in, flared their wings, and one by one, gracefully settled on the calm water. On any other day, he would have marveled at the beauty of the sight.
He once again opened the white envelope addressed to his brother, unfolded his hand-written one page note, and read it for the twentieth time. A tear slid down his cheek as he folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. This time he sealed the envelope, then placed it on the passenger seat next to the Taurus Millennium G2 9mm and stared at the gun. Returning his gaze to the eastern sky, he watched as the sun peeked above the horizon.
Looking back at the pistol, Paul picked it up, placed the barrel under his chin, and without hesitation, pulled the trigger.
The sound echoed off the hills surrounding the lake, startling several flocks of geese and ducks. Eventually, the clamor of their honking and quacking subsided and once again, the tranquility of early morning returned to the lake.
***
FBI Agent Sean Kruger stood in the middle of Paul Bishop’s sparsely furnished living room. It was a small house located in the town of Wildwood, MO west of St. Louis. The house contained two bedrooms, a kitchen, laundry room, and one bathroom. Today the entire place was a beehive of activity, with members of an FBI forensics team and local detectives combing every room for clues about the owner. Referring to a small notebook, Kruger said, “Teri, can I ask you a question?”
Teri Monroe, lead technician for the FBI team, walked over. “Sure, what’s up, Sean?”
“We’ve worked more than a few cases together over the years, haven’t we?”
“More years than I care to think about.” She smiled.
“Do you notice anything unusual about this place?”
She looked around and shook her head. “Nope. Looks like a man’s house to me.”
She looked back at Kruger. “Why?”
“It’s unnaturally neat.”
“We’ve seen it before.” She shrugged. “The guy was a compulsive cleaner. Everything has its place, and everything’s in its place.”
Kruger shook his head. “The guy lived here twenty years. I don’t see any pictures of family, friends, or pets. There’s nothing personal in this house, absolutely nothing.”
Monroe looked around the room and frowned. “Now that you mention it...”
Kruger checked his notes and continued, looking back at Monroe.
“There’s nothing in this house identifying who the envelope is for. Just the name Randy. No last name. Who’s Randy?”
He frowned and paced the small room. “Did Paul Bishop strip this place clean before he took his life, or did this Randy person do it?”
He stopped moving and focused on Monroe. “I need answers, Teri.”
“Shit.” Monroe shook her head. “Okay, everyone gather in the living room. We have a problem.”
Of the four technicians gathering evidence, three were women from the St. Louis FBI office, and the fourth was a young skinny man who arrived at the scene with Monroe. Monroe waited until everyone was in the living room. “Agent Kruger just made an observation, and I tend to agree with him. Before we arrived, someone may have been in this house and taken evidence. We need to step up our game and determine if anything is missing. You know the drill. Let’s get to it.”
They all nodded and returned to their tasks.
“Charlie, would you stay here for a second?” Monroe pointed at the tall skinny kid. “Agent Kruger, this is Charlie Craft. He’s young and inexperienced, but someday will make an excellent forensic technician for the FBI.”
Kruger smiled and shook the young man’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Charlie.”
The young man stared at Kruger while he shook his hand. “Uh… Oh my… I mean… Uh, nice to meet you, Mr. Kruger.”
“The name is Sean.” Kruger chuckled. “My dad was Mr. Kruger.”
Monroe grinned, “Mr. Kruger, please show Charlie how you would look at a crime scene.” She winked at Kruger and walked away.
“Charlie,” Kruger looked around the room, “what do we know about the man who owned this house?”
“He committed suicide and left a note confessing to the four killings known as the Quarry Murders. That was your case, wasn’t it?”
Kruger nodded. “The reason we’re here. What else, Charlie?”
Charlie shook his head. “That’s all I’ve been told.”
“Exactly. We know very little about this man, except he owned this house free and clear. No mortgage. We know his name: Paul Bishop. We know he had one credit card with a zero balance. We know he had a cell phone because of a bill found in his mailbox. We also know he owned a computer because the house has a Wi-Fi router. But we haven’t found a cell phone or a computer, have we?”
Kruger remained silent as Charlie looked around the room. “Maybe he hid them off-site, or possibly they were stolen.”
Kruger nodded. “I prefer to think the former.”
“Why?”
“Good question. I’ll answer it in a minute. One other fact we know about our Mr. Bishop: he has a clean background. Never been arrested, not even a traffic ticket, nothing. He didn’t exist in the criminal system until they found his body with the note. It’s rare. Most people get a speeding ticket at some point in their lives, but he didn’t.”
Charlie’s eyes didn’t waver as he watched Kruger.
“So here we are in his home of twenty years. It should reveal something about Mr. Bishop, wouldn’t you agree, Charlie?”
Charlie nodded.
“So why is this house not telling us anything about Mr. Paul Bishop?”
Charlie shook his head. “I don’t know?”
Kruger smiled.
“I think our Mr. Bishop has a secret. A secret someone doesn’t want us to know.”
While the forensics team systematically searched Paul Bishop’s house, local detective Barry Winslow tapped Kruger on the shoulder. “Sean, we found someone at home who says she knows Bishop. I think you need to talk to her.”
Kruger nodded and followed the detective out of the house. It was a picturesque neighborhood: a shady canopy of mature trees drooped over the street, with sidewalks on both sides of the road, nicely manicured lawns, and well-kept older homes. They turned to the south and walked diagonally across the street toward a house obscured by shrubs, flowers, and hanging baskets on the front porch. Alfonzo Cordero, another local detective, opened the door and introduced Kruger to the elderly owner.
“Mrs. Sellers, this is FBI Agent Sean Kruger. Agent, this is Norma Sellers.”
Kruger smiled and offered his identification, which the petite woman examined with care. Though slightly stooped over, she stood barely as tall as Kruger’s chest. He smiled. She probably didn’t weigh as much as the German shepherd his parents used to own. Her silver hair was nicely done, and she wore a patterned dress accented with an open solid blue sweater. She handed his ID back. “I’ve never met anyone from the FBI.”
“It just means I travel more than these detectives.” Kruger smiled. “I’m basically here to assist them.”
She returned the smile. “Can I offer you coffee, Mr. FBI Agent?”
“No thank you, ma’am.”
“I offered these gentlemen coffee, but they turned it down too. You know, you remind me of my late husband. He was tall and slender just like you and a runner. Do you run, Mr. FBI Agent? Sorry, I’ve forgotten you name.”
