by J. C. Fields
She took a deep breath, sighed, “I’ll take him home with me. After you called the other day, I contacted a funeral home in Rockford. I bought a double plot with a headstone. I’ll be able to visit him often. When it’s time, I’ll be next to him.”
Kruger nodded and remained silent, not knowing what to say.
Brenda Parker looked up at him. “I still love him, Agent Kruger. Always have.”
Kruger suddenly realized Randolph Bishop claimed his first victim a long time ago. His brother’s marriage. Finally, he gave her a sad smile. “We’ll probably never know why Paul took the blame for his brother.”
She smiled back at Kruger. “I know. All Paul ever wanted in life was for his brother to love him. All Randolph did was to constantly forget about Paul. It’s that simple, Agent Kruger.”
Kruger was silent for several moments and then just nodded.
Part Two
Present Day
Chapter 4
Bangkok, Thailand
The Glock’s barrel pressed hard against the Vietnamese man’s forehead, leaving a discernible impression on the skin.
“Are you lying to me?”
“No, no, no, device inside suitcase, I place in plane like you say.” He stared at the taller man, eyes blinking rapidly, his back to the wall of the tiny apartment’s living area. The room was sparsely furnished and smelled of body odor, spoiled seafood, and urine.
“Why is the plane still flying?
The smaller man eyes widened. “I not know.”
“You’re lying.”
“Not lying, earn money.”
Randolph Bishop lowered the gun and stepped back. The man in front of him relaxed slightly, but kept his eyes on the Glock. Bishop asked, “Okay, exactly what did you do?”
“Like you told me, I wait until last minute to put bag on board. I shut baggage department door. Plane taxied away from terminal fifteen minutes later. No problems, all good.”
He smiled slightly, still nervous.
Bishop looked at the man. “It’s been almost four hours and there’s no reports about the plane disappearing. Can you explain that?”
The smaller man shrugged, still staring at the Glock. “Maybe device not work.”
“You’d better hope it worked.”
“You pay rest of money now?” The baggage handler raised his eyebrows and grinned, displaying numerous missing teeth.
“No, not until I hear the plane went down. Then you’ll get your money.”
“I did what you ask. Not my fault device not work.”
Bishop shook his head, raised the Glock, and shot the man in the chest. The Vietnamese man’s eyes grew wide as he stared down at the blossom of red on his right breast. Eyes still wide, he looked up at Bishop as he slid down the wall to the floor. Bishop walked over to where the man sat and looked down with no emotion. The man on the floor stared up at Bishop.
“No, I don’t suppose it would be your fault the device didn’t work. But I don’t want you discussing it with the authorities.”
He raised the Glock again and aimed it at the now sobbing man’s forehead. He shook his head and pulled the trigger. The sobbing stopped.
Looking around, Bishop found the two ejected brass casings and put them in his pant pocket. The dingy apartment only contained two rooms; it took only a few minutes to find what he was looking for. Hidden in a metal box buried under folded clothes in a foot locker, Bishop found the money. Thumbing the stack of bills, he determined it was all there except for a few hundred dollars.
Bishop glanced around to make sure nothing incriminating was left. Satisfied, he walked out of the apartment and shut the door behind him. No one opened their door as he walked down the hall. Neighbors knew not to be curious or react to gunshots in their building.
Outside in front of the baggage handler’s apartment building, he looked up and down the crowded street. It was a shabby part of a modern, but ancient city. A part seen by few of the city’s visitors. Private conversations were held in shadowy corners as street vendors hustled their wares and money exchanged hands for illicit goods or services. The din of activity made it hard to concentrate as Bishop walked west away from the baggage handler’s apartment.
Several blocks later, the side street ended. He stood on the corner of a busy thoroughfare, looking for one of the thousands of taxis populating the city. He flagged one down. As he shut the door, he said in Thai, “No meter,” and handed the driver a crisp United States hundred dollar bill. The driver’s eyes widened and he smiled as the taxi pulled away from the curb.
“Destination?” asked the driver in heavily accented English.
Bishop gave him an address, then sat back as the driver negotiated the incessant Bangkok traffic. As the taxi crawled along, Bishop took a passport out of his inside jacket pocket. He opened it and stared at the name and picture: Everett Stewart from Sydney, Australia. The man was in his fifties, heavy set, with gray hair.
***
“How much to make changes to the passport?”
Arane, the only name Bishop knew for the forger, looked up from the magnifying glass. The passport, given to him by Bishop, was in his hand directly under the glass. The man’s English was clipped with a heavy accent. “Ten thousand, US dollars.” He smiled and stared at Bishop.
Bishop shook his head. “Too much, six.”
Still smiling, Arane shrugged and handed the passport back to Bishop. “No can do. Take elsewhere.”
Bishop folded his arms across his chest. “Seven.”
Arane still held the passport, but pulled it back closer to his body. “Maybe eight, no less.”
Bishop nodded. “How long before it’s done?”
“I take picture now, you come back tomorrow.”
Shaking his head, Bishop’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll wait.”
The artist shrugged. “Could take hours.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You steal passport?”
“The man’s dead, Arane. Don’t ask questions.”
“I not care, just curious.”
“It’s not healthy to be curious.”
Arane nodded, turned, and disappeared behind a curtain covering a door frame. A moment later he reappeared with a digital camera on a tripod, which he placed in front of a blue sheet hanging on a wall.
“Step over there, smile big.” He pointed toward the sheet and Bishop complied, but did not smile. When the picture was taken, Arane connected the camera to a laptop on a cluttered desk. He opened the laptop and started.
As Bishop sat down in a chair and watched the man, his thoughts wandered back to how he obtained the passport.
Everett Stewart was waiting outside the gate for Malaysia Airline Flight 24, destination Sydney. At Stewart’s feet sat a backpack with the man’s passport and boarding pass half exposed in one of the pockets. Handy to get when his flight was called, but also easy to steal. Bishop nonchalantly sat next to the snoozing man and waited several minutes to make sure the man did not wake. He then bent over and pretended to tie his shoe. With one swift move, he switched his own passport and boarding pass for Stewart’s.
Twenty minutes later, as Bishop watched the boarding of the doomed flight, he saw Stewart hand the boarding pass to the agent at the gate, never once looking at it. As the man disappeared into the jet bridge, Bishop smiled, turned and left the airport.
Four hours later Malaysia Airline Flight 24 disappeared over the Indian Ocean.
Three hours passed before Arane stepped out of the back room and handed the passport to Bishop. After flipping through the document he smiled. “Very good, Arane. Very good.”
“You owe eight thousand US dollars.” Arane held his hand out and grinned. “You pay big bonus for quick job, right?”
“Yes, Arane, I will pay you a bonus for your excellent work.”
Bishop reached behind his back and withdrew the Glock. He pointed it at the forger and fired. The hollow point 9mm bullet pierced the skull just above Arane’s left eye. His
life ended before he realized there would be no more forging jobs to perform.
Bishop stepped over the body. “No good deed shall go unpunished.”
He retrieved the laptop and digital camera, placing them in a black canvas bag he found next to the desk. After wiping down all the surfaces he remembered touching, he retrieved the brass casing ejected by the gun.
Looking around the room, he felt satisfied nothing remained to incriminate him. Walking to the door of the dingy office, he opened it and glanced up and down the dimly lit hallway. Seeing no one, he locked the door, pulled it shut, and casually left the building. Gunshots were common in this part of Bangkok. As with the baggage handlers neighbors, everyone knew not to be too inquisitive.
Chapter 5
Springfield, MO
Sean Kruger, Ph.D. and recent retiree from the FBI, read the paragraph for the third time, still not comprehending what the undergraduate writer was trying to convey. His six-foot frame leaned back in a squeaky desk chair with his scuffed brown loafers propped on an ancient gray metal desk. Grading the essay portion of the semester’s final exams was challenging his alertness as his eyelids kept spontaneously closing. Taking his feet down, he concluded the one he held was hopeless. Giving up on trying to understand the student’s logic, he placed the paper on his desk and circled the opening paragraph with red ink. As a final note of his frustration, he made several big question marks at the top of the page.
Putting down the pen, he removed his reading glasses, placed his elbows on the desk and leaned forward to press the palms of his hands against his eyes.
There was a knock on his closed office door.
“Come in, it’s open.”
Opening the door was a tall slender man in his late sixties. He wore a navy blazer, white button down oxford shirt, khaki cotton pants, shiny loafers, and boldly colored socks. He bore an uncanny resemblance to the actor Morgan Freeman.
The man smiled. “You look bored.”
“I am. Grading final exam essays isn’t exactly my favorite thing to do. Necessary, but that doesn’t make it fun.”
“Just give multiple choice questions. Easier and faster to grade than essays.”
Kruger chuckled and nodded. “True, but you can’t truly test a student’s knowledge that way.”
The visitor sat down in a straight-backed metal chair in front of Kruger’s desk. “I remember a post-grad student, many years ago, who used to blow the minds of his professors with his essays.”
“Urban legend.”
“It’s true. I read them before I started recruiting you.”
Kruger gave his visitor a weak grin. “What brings you to campus, Joseph?”
Looking around the small gloomy basement office, the visitor chuckled. “Quaint.”
“I don’t need a large fancy office. I’m only here a few hours a day for students. Most of my work is done at home.” Leaning toward the man sitting across from him, his eyes narrowed. “Again, Joseph, why are you here?”
“Should I call you Dr. Kruger?”
“You do, and I’ll shoot you.”
“Does that mean you still carry a weapon?”
Kruger smiled. “Only during class.”
Joseph grinned at the comment, then his expression darkened. “We need to talk. But not here.”
Looking at the small clock on his desk, Kruger started placing final exams in his backpack. “My office hours were up a half hour ago. Let’s go grab a beer somewhere.”
Twenty minutes later, the two friends sat in the back corner of a sports bar a few blocks from Kruger’s house on the south side of town.
“So what’s the big mystery we couldn’t discuss in my office, Joseph?”
Casually looking around before he spoke, Joseph leaned toward Kruger. “Do you remember Roy Griffin?”
Kruger nodded. Roy Griffin was a member of the United States House of Representatives from a district south of San Francisco. Kruger and his team saved the congressman and his wife a year earlier from an assassin’s bullet.
“Did you know he was drafted as a Senate candidate last fall and elected in November?”
“I remember reading something about it. Why?”
“His party is now in the majority, and he was named Chairman of the Homeland Security and Government Affairs Committee.”
“Good for him.”
“He’s a rising star in Washington, Sean.”
Kruger shook his head. “Too bad, I thought he was a good guy.”
“He still is. The president likes him.”
“Joseph, what are you dancing around? Get to the point.”
They both stopped talking as a young waitress placed two beers on the table. Joseph thanked her and watched as she walked away. He turned back to Kruger. “I am. Stay with me. Do you know we found the Imam from San Francisco?”
Kruger’s eyes narrowed, and his head shook slightly.
“He was found in Paris four months after you stopped the vans.”
As he listened to Joseph, Kruger’s thoughts returned to the last investigation of his FBI career. A year ago, almost to the day, he started searching for a group of individuals targeting rich businessmen. As it turned out, their actions were a diversion for a well-planned and highly sophisticated terrorist attack planned on the Walmart Annual Shareholders meeting in Fayetteville, Arkansas. Three vans loaded with explosives were sent to the Bud Walton Arena where the meeting was taking place.
“I didn’t stop them, Joseph. I had a good team; they deserve the credit.”
“Everyone knows that, Sean. Your team is why two of the vans didn’t reach their destination. But guess who stopped the last one before it could explode inside Bud Walton Arena and saving thousands of lives?” He paused for a few seconds waiting for his friend’s response. When there was none, he leaned forward in his chair. “You.”
The explosion almost killed him. With a new wife and adopted baby girl now part of his life, he retired to teach Psychology at a large university in Southwest Missouri.
“Where’s the Imam now?”
“No longer a problem.” Joseph raised his beer to his lips, but before taking a drink, said, “He had an unfortunate accident on a busy street in Paris. Seems he stumbled into the path of an oncoming delivery truck.” He drank, then placed the beer mug back on the table. “I was told it was messy.”
Kruger smiled grimly. “I take it he’s the only one they’ve found.”
“A correct assessment.”
“Joseph, you and I both know more individuals were involved.”
Taking another sip from his beer, Joseph nodded.
Raising his glass for the first time and taking a sip, Kruger looked over the rim of the glass. “I know I’m going to regret asking, but why are you telling me all of this?”
“Senator Griffin has been holding closed door inquiries about the incidents. No press. He would like for you to testify. No pressure, but the first time you can be in Washington, he would like for you to meet with his committee.”
Kruger was about to take another sip of beer, but stopped. He sat up straight, frowned and stared at Joseph. “I’ve been retired from the FBI for a year now, Joseph. I wouldn’t know anything new, therefore, there’s no need for me to testify.”
“Did you know Ryan Clark stayed with the Bureau?”
“Yes, we’ve kept in touch.”
“Ryan testified about the two Washington, D.C., assassinations he investigated with the Alexandria PD. Your name came up.”
“I was there as a consultant, nothing more.”
“Clark gave details about how you two tracked Norman Ortega from St. Louis to San Francisco.”
Kruger frowned. “Did he mention JR during his testimony?”
“No, I had a word with him before. Since Charlie Craft was working with JR at the time, he got the credit.”
“Good.”
“Do you know how many individual careers you helped advance with your investigation of that one incident?”
&
nbsp; Staring out one of the plate glass windows, Kruger slowly shook his head.
“Paul Stumpf is now the director of the FBI, Alan Seltzer is the deputy director, Roy Griffin is a senator, Ryan Clark is an up-and-coming investigator with the Bureau, and Charlie Craft is now over the Cyber Branch of the agency. All of these advances came because of you.”
Kruger smiled. “I didn’t know about Charlie. Good for him.”
“The only person who didn’t benefit from your hard work was you.”
“I did benefit. I retired.”
“Why?”
“You know my reasons.”
“They were the wrong reasons, Sean.”
A dark mood swept over Kruger. He set his beer down hard and glared at Joseph. “You of all people know the sacrifices of devotion to career, so don’t lecture me about my reasons. I never questioned doing the Bureau’s bidding while my son grew up. During those years, I missed key events in his life a father shouldn’t miss. Most people don’t get second chances. I get one with Stephanie and our daughter Kristin. So if you don’t mind, I’ll not be repeating my mistakes.”
Joseph put his hands up, palms toward Kruger. “Wrong choice of words. Sorry.”
Kruger gripped his beer with both hands and watched the tiny bubbles ascended to the surface.
“There were other options. Retirement wasn’t the best one.”
“I’ve been in facility meetings more enjoyable than this conversation, Joseph. What’s on your mind? I’ve never heard you this vague, and we’ve known each other for thirty years.”
Taking a deep breath, Joseph slowly let it out. “They want to expand my responsibilities, Sean. Your investigation last year uncovered a simmering problem the FBI, CIA, NSA and all the other agencies ignored for years.”
“What’s that?”
“Domestic terrorism. Not immigrants who come here to cause havoc. Terrorists who are born and bred here. Hell, they’re US citizens. Congress is wringing its collective hands about changing gun laws, but that won’t stop anything. We have to identify these people before they commit atrocities.”
