by D. A. Bale
The letter – if only she still had the letter she’d found from her mother describing the inability to conceive, the campaign tour, the rape. The look on Warner’s face when he’d spoken of loving her mother didn’t compute. If he’d loved her, why would he rape her?
No matter how much Samantha still wanted to hate him, she couldn’t deny that from Warner’s perspective the feeling between he and her mother had been mutual. A misunderstanding wrung out of control? No. According to Warner’s remembrances, it sounded as if the liaison was consensual.
A new question nagged her. Was the letter from the tombstone really from her mother? She strained to see it again in memory. She’d just assumed it was her mother’s writing at the time she read it, but she was very young when they’d died. Was the letter forged? But why? More importantly, was it possible her mother had actually had an affair of her own free will? Her mother? There were too many sides to her mother now, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever really known her in those short years.
All manner of emotion welled up and swept over her like a truck. Tears streamed down her face against her will. She splashed more cold water on her face to stem the heat of anger, frustration, confusion, and sorrow.
“Am I disturbing something?”
Marcus’ question jolted Samantha from her dark reverie. She glared. “I’m not in the mood for anymore questions right now.”
“Obviously.”
Samantha saw a myriad of questions in his eyes, and there was no way she could voice the questions tumbling around her own mind.
“What do you want?”
“You seemed in a hurry to complete the debriefing today.”
“Well after more than two hours, can you blame me?”
He started to retort then perhaps thought the better of it. “Maybe not. Will you be coming to my room tonight?”
They could zap her with the ear chip all they wanted, even to the point of frying her brain. Her emotions were too raw. There was no way she would give him any part of her mind, body, or soul tonight.
Samantha stood and stretched her legs, then she sprinted off again along the pathway.
“Go to hell.”
She meant every word.
***
Marcus watched Samantha’s retreating form and sighed. They were losing her. If he didn’t watch it she’d end up taking him down with her. The time had come for her to carry out the purpose of her mission – that is if she could still perform. He shook his head when he thought of what would happen to her after the deed was done.
If only he had the courage to tell her the truth.
Chapter 47 – Things Heat Up
Third hotel in four days. Joe parked the car and dragged his meager belongings into the shabby lobby to check into the room. He had to get some sleep.
“That’ll be one hundred thirteen dollars and eighty-seven cents,” the clerk stated.
His cash supply dwindled. They didn’t want him using the ATM’s anymore. The SAC had tried to arrange a meeting, but he’d missed the drop point in time. Got a good butt-chewing later on the phone. There had to be a way to connect with Hitchens or even Laturno without compromising them in his investigation. Just a few hours sleep. No way could they trace him that soon. Joe passed his card to the clerk and grabbed the key.
The investigation grew deeper and more bizarre by the moment. After depositing his stash in the room, Joe once again reviewed the latest bit of information with what he’d already committed to memory. Coupled with the lack of sleep, the insanity magnified ten times over.
Was it possible? Had he finally gone off the deep end?
Hitler alive?
There was no denying how the obscure references he’d found all seemed to fit together to form a carefully designed pattern.
Oleander sells off billions in stolen goods from Nazi Germany. Then those completely whacked sites talking about Hitler’s Jewish roots through a man that his grandmother worked for as a domestic: Franken-something or other. That line of family had immigrated to Austria a generation before from Belgium. They had made a fortune as art dealers. Then Hitler an Austrian not a German – go figure. If he ever extricated himself from this, he’d have a field day with companies that sold textbooks to schools.
Then the oleander plant itself used for medicinal purposes but poisonous if ingested. For hundreds of years people had poisoned themselves trying to replicate the Egyptian recipe. Believers were feverish in their support of such fantasy. Could it be possible the fantasy had become reality?
During the Third Reich, Hitler was known for surrounding himself with the greatest scientists in all known and developing fields at that time. Countless lives were sacrificed during his experiments all in the name of perfecting the human race. With those lives at their disposal, was it possible that the Nazis had perfected the recipe?
Joe couldn’t escape the memory of that piece of tunnel he’d seen in the remains of the bunker back in Wichita either. Nazi records revealed countless bunkers and an elaborate tunneling system all over Germany. Throughout Europe and the Mediterranean there were ancient caves, catacombs, and tunnels bored out of rock centuries before the Nazis. The Egyptians were famous for their elaborate crypt systems.
Perhaps they’d finally perfected the tunneling systems too and had brought it to America after the war. Far too many war criminals had escaped punishment after the end of World War Two. Many were traced to South America. With the southern U.S. border as porous as a sieve, it wouldn’t take much to smuggle them into the States. Border agents had discovered numerous elaborate tunnels between Mexico and the United States.
Joe yawned. The weaving of the details in his mind had to stop for a few hours at least. He needed rest in an awful way. After kicking off his shoes, Joe slid between the sheets and closed his eyes.
The dream kicked in almost immediately.
***
The concrete chipped and splattered against his face as Joe hacked away at the bunker wall. His arms ached, the effort like moving through sludge. Each blow made hardly a dent, but still Joe kept at it. The flying pieces sliced through his arms and flayed his cheeks. If he weren’t careful he’d lose an eye.
Days seemed to pass with little advance until the hammer broke through. Light glimmered beyond the wall. He could hear her cries for help. With renewed effort, he dug with his bare hands until they were bloodied and raw.
When the hole was big enough for his head, Joe leaned in to see Samantha fall into a bottomless chasm.
“Samantha!”
His voice echoed down the crater after her rapidly descending form. Once again, he was too late to save her. The concrete wall swelled and wrapped itself around his neck, entrapping him forever in its grasp. Always he could hear Samantha’s continual cries for help.
***
Joe awoke barely able to breathe. The cell phone jammed into his hip as he rolled on his side and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The dream haunted him more and more. If Hitler were still alive was it possible Samantha lived also? He remembered her scent, the way her hair blew across her face in the wind. She seemed more real every time he woke from the dream. How would he even begin to find her if she really was alive?
Stay the course.
When he found Oleander’s lair, would he find Samantha too? Was she wrapped up in her family’s connections to this web? Had they kidnapped her, or did she go willingly?
Stay the course.
Samantha’s image faded from his mind as the inner voice pulled him further from the dream. He had to focus on piecing the clues together on his investigation without letting it become personal.
A knock sounded and a muffled voice called out. “Room service.”
Joe glanced at his watch – almost three A.M. What did room service want at that hour? He’d never even ordered dinner in the first place. Could this old place even have a kitchen?
His mind snapped fully awake. Like a cat, Joe crept across the floor and glanced through the peephole. A s
mall metal cart sat right outside his door. No attendant.
Joe popped the Glock from its holster and unlocked the door. Just as he peered through the slit of the opening, a slight click drew his attention toward the floor.
Damn!
In one motion, Joe leapt toward the bathroom, slammed the bathroom door and pulled the shower curtain down as he landed in the tub.
The explosion rang through his ears and knocked the air from his lungs. The heat almost melted the plastic shower curtain to his clothes. A weight crushed down on him. As his senses adjusted from the fog back to reality, Joe realized the heavy bathroom door had landed over the tub in virtually one piece. The tomb had miraculously spared his life.
With his feet, Joe tossed back the door, grabbed his gun, and climbed gingerly from the tub. Acrid smoke and fire smoldered around the edge where the door used to be, the remainder of the wall tattered and flaming. The tub faucet still worked so he soaked several towels, wrapped them around his socked feet, and covered his head and mouth. He felt like a tiger jumping through a flaming loop at a circus as he forced his way through the blown out area.
The room lay in shambles. Smoke coated the air. Joe only wanted to escape and breathe freely again. Little time remained. He grabbed the chair and slammed it into the shattered window. With the second blow, the glass gave way and rained down two stories below along the sidewalk.
His shoes were nowhere to be found. This was going to hurt no matter how he handled it. Then an idea hit him – Joe grabbed the mattress from against the wall and with effort shoved it out the window. With a leap, he followed suit.
As he made contact with the mattress, Joe bent his knees and rolled to help absorb the impact. The cell phone would leave a nasty bruise, but besides being sore for a few days he’d made it. Or so he thought.
A bullet zinged past his ear. Joe jumped into the bushes and hugged the ground as he searched the darkness for the source. These guys weren’t leaving any stone unturned. They were determined to take him out – and for what? They couldn’t know what he was thinking, where the web of investigation was leading him unless each piece led exactly where his mind had traipsed.
They knew.
He’d painted a big bulls-eye on his chest by using that blasted credit card. If he got out of this, he could teach the Idiot Agent 101 course at Quantico. Laturno would make a mockery of him to the others, but he didn’t care as long as he made it out alive.
No more shots. He couldn’t just pretend to be a bush for the next few hours and wait for whoever hid out to sneak up on him. As he slowly stirred from the garden, a barrage of shots sliced the air. Joe’s feet hardly touched the pavement as he dodged the bullets and sought safe haven in the dark at the corner of the building, where he proceeded to take out as many lights as possible around the parking lot.
His car. This group probably located it and had it under surveillance or planted full of explosives to shoot up as if it were Independence Day. He slipped between cars and tried doors, hoping all the while that he didn’t come face to face with his attempted killer. Finally a car door unlatched, an older model. The passenger seat covered him as he leaned under the driver’s side dash. He’d never had to hot-wire in the dark, but Joe didn’t have time to mess around. The pierce of the engine was a welcomed noise.
As Joe sat up and slammed the car into reverse, another series of shots rang out and shattered the rear window. Hopefully the owners had good insurance coverage. Rubber burned as he laid it down in the parking lot and the car leapt toward the highway. The explosion of his parked car nearly blocked his escape, but he careened by before the impact hit. The fireball lit up the night and allowed a glimpse in the rearview mirror of his assailant.
He could have sworn it was the redhead who’d tried to run over him several days ago.
Chapter 48 – The Directive
“And when you put it on, the fabric bleeds into your own skin so that it is virtually indistinguishable,” Marcus continued.
Debrille took up the reins with a smile. “Then when you must act, you press this area here that connects to the nerve impulses near your navel and you disappear in the blink of an eye.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Samantha chided. “I’m supposed to believe that you’ve been able to capture atomic energy in the molecules of this simple hosiery and whoosh, I disappear?”
Marcus spoke up. “Actually it is a lightweight fabric, not hosiery.”
Samantha rolled her eyes at Marcus as if to intimidate him. Sad attempt, but it made her feel better. Seemed almost as if they were trying to talk her into putting on a body condom. At this stage, what was the point?
“We’ve used a combination of atomic energies and nano-technology and taken it further than anyone on the surface will ever discern.”
Debrille certainly was proud of the accomplishments of his scientists – crowed like a blind rooster at midnight. She could almost see his South American sweatshop workers sewing the fabric. It still felt like hosiery – a little thicker, perhaps, but it certainly wouldn’t leave much to the imagination when she put it on. A nauseous churning ensued. Why did she need to put it on?
“So what is the point with this high-tech hosiery?” She couldn’t resist tossing a smirk toward Marcus.
“To assist in leaving the scene, if needed,” Marcus deadpanned.
“The scene of what?” She didn’t want to know, but deep inside, she already knew Marcus’ response. The time had arrived.
“The scene of the murder.”
It felt almost as if hands gripped her throat and held it tight. Her voice sounded small in her ears.
“Whose?”
“Warner’s, of course.”
The cavern spun with confusion. The Elite told her Warner had killed her parents, her grandmother, attempted her life. But after the months with Warner, the discussions, his frank openness about his relationships, her mother – could it be they were wrong? Had the Elite misled her and Warner been honest? Who had lied? Who was really responsible?
Her stare shot straight to Debrille. “I won’t do it.”
She’d expected Debrille to turn beet red with rage, tell Marcus to draw his gun, maybe even shoot her. Fear coursed through her veins. Instead he stared back until a smile toyed at the edges of his mouth.
“Oh, but you will, my dear.”
“Debrille, you can kill me and start over again with someone else. But that will still leave Warner alive and in power…a place where you will never be.”
“I still have power over you.”
“Only in your twisted mind.”
Hot breath steamed against her neck as Marcus drew close behind. Debrille walked slowly to her, that sick smirk permanently etched on his face.
“You will kill Warner.”
“What is this, some sort of Jedi mind trick? It isn’t going to work.”
“Or we will kill an old friend,” Debrille stated.
Cold fingers of terror gripped Samantha’s mind. A friend? She didn’t have the luxury of friends. Who could they…?
“I don’t have friends.”
The pout on Debrille just didn’t fit. “Are you so quickly forgetting the love of your life, Detective…I mean, Agent Joe Roberts?”
“Agent?”
“Yes – he’s realized his dream of joining the FBI. Agent Roberts was at the top of his class at Quantico, and he’s now stationed just above us.”
Samantha’s mouth went dry. “He’s here? He’s in D.C.?”
Debrille winked and motioned for Marcus to follow him as he walked away. “You always did catch on quick, just like your mother.”
His words rang hollow in the air as the door slammed.
***
Marcus strolled down the hallway alongside Debrille, dejected, deflated, but he kept the mask in place. So Samantha still had feelings for this Roberts character. Too bad for him.
Debrille’s words slid through his teeth in a whisper. “Is there still no word on relocating Robe
rts?”
“Sasha is working on it. Records show he entered the archives again early yesterday morning.”
“Then tell that bitch to find him today or she’s going back to that Peruvian brothel. Better yet, tell her I’m sending over some help. Contact Eric.”
“Is that wise to pull him from cover?”
“We’ve got to find this guy quickly, or all our work will be for naught. Just tell him to be discreet about being seen with her. He’ll know what to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Marcus.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t ever question me again.”
***
Tears dampened the bodysuit as she slipped it on. Would saline cause it to explode? Debrille was too smart for that – he was too smart for everything. Every time she thought she’d gained the upper hand, Debrille brought it all crashing in around her. He could kill her and it wouldn’t even matter anymore. But Joe?
Joe Roberts. Even after all those years apart, he’d still set her heart pounding when she’d stormed into his office in Wichita. Yet she’d still pushed him away with her anger. How long had he been in D.C.? So close, yet forever out of reach. Her voice might sound the same, but he’d never recognize her after all the cosmetic work they’d done to her body.
How had she gotten in so deeply? Stupid question, she knew how, but she was no longer sure of the why. That had all been based on a total and complete fabrication. Warner wasn’t all they’d led her to believe. Sure there were elements of corruption, philandering, lying, but he’d also shown her a side of himself that was tired of it all – a man who regretted some of what he’d done with the hand that life had dealt. The missus had some guilt in that too. Cast aside a guy’s manhood and it was pretty scary what could happen.
Samantha stared in the mirror, straightened her shoulders and arched her back. Alexandra had to be in there somewhere, otherwise she’d never carry it off. Warner was the target. Warner deserved to die.
Corruption. Samantha whittled off the elements in which Warner had played the odds without getting caught. Philandering. All the different women he’d wronged and how he’d tossed his marriage vows aside. Importance lay in reminding herself of his bad character traits.
