[2013] Flash

by Tim Tigner

  Luther had been surprisingly gentlemanly with her. Despite Giselle’s mention that Luther liked the hunt more than the conquest, Emmy had fully expected him to come to her cabin the first night and take her anyway he liked. On the ocean there was no one to hear her scream. She had lain awake until dawn, a steak knife poised to thrust, but Luther had kept to himself.

  The one clue to Troy that Luther would surely have stopped had he noticed, was her use of sign language. Unfortunately, the odds of Troy figuring it out were not good either. On her first day aboard the yacht, Luther had photographed her holding a computer printout of the LA Times article on Mafia Boss James “Orca” Scapone’s brutal death. The author led with the suspicion that rival boss Jimmy “Choke” Cortese was behind the execution, given the signature method of asphyxiation. That night she had come up with a plan. The following day and every day thereafter, Emmy held the daily newspaper headline with her left hand positioned so that her fingers spelled out one letter of SS-BRINKMAN in sign language. There was no detectable pattern in any one picture, but she figured that Troy might study them en masse—hopefully every night before bed.

  Today she would dangle the printout from her fist with her thumb clenched between her ring and middle fingers, signaling N, the final entry in her code. Her hope was that Troy had devised the means to escape Farkas and would do so the moment he knew where to find her. Luther had implemented the system of thrice-daily checkups as a countermeasure, but Troy had the voice talent to get around that.

  Setting down her tube of lip gloss, Emmy rose from her vanity and walked upstairs to the main deck. Luther sat lounging on a semicircular couch, reading the latest issue of Caribbean Lifestyles. He set the magazine down as she approached, and said, “My, you do look lovely.”

  “It’s for Troy,” she said, immediately regretting her words. Distasteful as it was, she wanted to keep on Luther’s good side. There was no telling when the opportunity to escape might arise, and she wanted the split-second advantage that a cordial relationship would give. Changing her tone to one more friendly, she said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you a question.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you choose to use 456 the way you have? Why erase the memories of witnesses. I’d think you could market such a drug legitimately to trauma victims, women who have been raped and soldiers returning from battle. Then none of this would have been necessary.”

  Luther gave her a look that she interpreted as half suspicion, half admiration. “I owed twenty-five million dollars to the mob. The interest, the vigorish as Orca called it, was a million a month. Given all the delays that a controversial new product like that could expect from wedge-issue politicians, evangelical Christians, and Scientologists, just to name a few, I’d have been worm food before I saw a dime.”

  Emmy nodded, trying to show understanding, sympathy.

  “And then there’s the fact that I had to kill everyone at the company who invented it,” Luther added. “That inclined me toward avoiding the public eye. Shall we take that picture now?”

  Emmy tried to keep her face impassive as she said, “Yes.”

  She took her seat on the other end of the semicircle, and raised the fresh printout as prescribed. Luther raised his digital camera and was just about to snap the photo when a call came in on his satellite phone. Emmy checked her own watch and saw that it was four hours too early to be Farkas. When Luther answered, however, she heard the Croatian’s distinctive voice ringing from the phone. She strained to hear his side of the conversation.

  “We’ve done it!” Farkas said. “We’ve implanted all nine.”

  Luther’s face burst wide open as a childish smile welled up from within. “That’s fantastic. Did all the implants go as planned?”

  “More or less. We had to use our backup plan on Goldstein since she came down with a cold. We caught her at her hairdresser rather than synagogue.”

  “With priorities like that, she doesn’t deserve the bench.”

  “Speaking of deserve …” Farkas prompted.

  “Don’t worry, my friend. Your seven zeros are but a flash away.”

  Clapping his phone shut, Luther thrust his right fist up into the air and shook it three times in victory.

  “You’re that happy about disabling the country’s judicial branch?” she asked.

  Luther shook his head. “I couldn’t care less about those nine old farts. Did you know that former Chief Justice Rehnquist spent a decade on the bench as a drug addict? Millions of Americans were incarcerated for using drugs while the chief justice was popping fifteen hundred milligrams of Placidyl a day.” He waved a hand dismissively. “What I do care about is this.” He flipped his phone back open, pressed seven on his speed dial and then engaged the speaker for her benefit.

  “I just got the word,” said a voice Emmy did not recognize. “My man has seen the whites of their eyes. Is everything else set for tomorrow morning?”

  “Absolutely everything.”

  “Excellent. Well then, congratulations are in order. As agreed, I’ll order the transfer as soon as we’re off the phone. You’ll have the remainder of your fee within an hour of banks opening in Europe.”

  “Three hundred million,” Luther prompted.

  “Three hundred million. Don’t forget to tidy up.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Good. And Luther …”

  “Yes?”

  “Have a nice life.”

  Luther sprang from the couch as he closed the phone and sashayed over to the galley. He opened the cabinet on the far end and pulled an emerald-cut burgundy box off the top shelf. Tucking it lovingly under his arm, he grabbed two tumblers from the bar and brought his loot over to the table before her. He sat down with his hips abutting hers and laid the treasure down before them. Scrawled atop it in gold lettering were the words: LOUIS XIII by Remy Martin. After giving her a moment to digest the words, he drew back the lid with both hands, exposing the famous Baccarat crystal decanter that housed the world’s finest cognac. “It’s time to celebrate.”

  Looking over at the lust radiating from her keeper’s eyes, Emmy felt a paralyzing chill creep up her spine. Her free pass had finally expired.

  Chapter 91

  Fireball

  “I HOPE your plan for getting us out of here will work as smoothly as your ploy for getting us in,” Troy whispered, fishing for information once they were far enough down the Supreme Court’s Grand Hall to be out of the guards’ earshot.

  Farkas ignored him. The payout of a lifetime was just a few steps away, and he was not going to say or do anything that might jeopardize his fortune.

  They walked in silence behind the small crowd of reporters to the West Conference Room. Once they had reached their destination, however, Troy leaned toward him and whispered, “Don’t you think it’s time to brief me on the details of our escape plan? I mean, within seconds of the justices all fainting, security is going to come down like an iron curtain. I don’t want to be locked inside while they investigate.”

  Farkas had kept out of jail by keeping his mouth shut. If somebody did not need to know something, he did not tell them. Period. Troy did not need to know that Farkas had simple smoke bombs hidden in the cuffs of his trousers. When the smoke erupted, he would still run for the doors like everyone else. Likewise, Troy did not need to know about the dozen tiny blasting caps secreted outside, the “gunshots” that would send the evacuating crowd running in all directions. At the same time, however, Farkas did not want to alienate his co-conspirator. They had nine sets of pupils to focus their flashes on. His chances of success improved markedly if he could go at them from two angles. He needed Troy’s unflinching participation.

  “Did I ever tell you how I got us press credentials?” Farkas asked.

  “No. You ignored my questions on that as well,” Troy replied, still avoiding his eye. Farkas had found him uncharacteristically diffident all morning. Even after taking out Kostas, Troy still lived in a world of ideals—a wo
rld where survival-of-the-fittest was not the presiding rule. His amnesia was going to be a blessing. It would allow him to look in the mirror after this morning without flinching. It would let him forget what he had done.

  Farkas needed no such balm.

  “It couldn’t have been easier,” Farkas whispered. “Wearing a black suit and earpiece, I approached a group of reporters waiting to gain access to the Capital and flashed forged Homeland Security credentials. I asked to see all of their credentials, and one-by-one ran each through a portable scanner which I described as “the latest advance in counter-terrorism technology.” Then I pressed a button that made the scanner beep and pronounced each to be legitimate. I gave the scanned files along with our pictures to the same lady who made my Homeland Security creds, and voila, we were golden.”

  Troy shook his head. “That’s the problem with conditioning people to follow procedures, to bowing to authority; you train them not to think.”

  “And you reduce everyone’s operating performance to that of the weakest link,” Farkas added, “making loopholes easier for us to exploit. Speaking of which, you go set up toward the right edge of the press area. I’ll stay here on the left. Between our two angles, we should catch the gazes of all nine justices simultaneously.”

  “How about you take the right, and I stay here on the left,” Troy countered. “Closer to the exit.”

  Farkas smiled. He didn’t do that very often, but knowing that an overflowing bank account was just minutes away, he was feeling giddy around the edges. “All right. But no comebacks if you get trampled in the rush to leave.”

  Farkas had trouble keeping his smile down as he set up his camera and pretended to calibrate it for the distance and lighting. This was the most-serious, highest-risk assignment he had ever undertaken, but all he could think about was his triumphant return to Croatia, flush with ten million bucks. He would set up each of his sisters with enough cash for them to leave their deadbeat husbands. Then he would buy the country estate he had always dreamed of, and set up his own medical practice. It would be as though he never lost his license, better even, for he was years ahead of his original schedule. “Whoever said there were no second chances?” he mumbled.

  The press conference prior to the Supreme Court’s opening conference was far less organized than Farkas had envisioned. People were just milling about the hallowed room waiting for the justices to appear. It was almost like a cocktail party, but for the casual dress and absence of booze. There were also fewer photographers than Farkas had expected, only about twenty in all, including C-SPAN’s videographer. In retrospect, he figured that was more than enough. Elderly people wearing baggy black robes were hardly a feast for the eyes—unless they were the victims of a tragic attack.

  A camera flash to his left alerted Farkas to the arrival of the first Justice. It was Jack Reynolds, the Chief. Troy had implanted him during his habitual Sunday morning jog around the ellipse. The others followed behind in procession.

  Farkas used a camera fitted with a special viewfinder to check their eyes. All nine pairs glowed with a violet tinge.

  Farkas switched to the UV-C flashing camera and waited with a hungry finger poised patiently on the button. Eight figures were just a flash away. He and Troy had agreed to wait until all nine justices had taken their seats behind the long mahogany table. They couldn’t have anyone fainting too early and triggering an evacuation procedure. He dared a glance to his left to ensure that Troy was in position, and then it was time.

  He pulled the string that ran up his pant leg and looped around his belt, releasing the smoke bombs and activating their sixty-second timer. As they rolled in different directions across the floor, he aimed his camera at Justice Reynolds. A tremendous spike of adrenaline hit his bloodstream as he pressed the button that sent three pulses of UV-C per second flashing toward attentive pupils. He swept first to Reynolds’ left and then back across the table to the far end, nailing each justice one by one.

  None of the Justices reacted.

  They just sat there, smiling for the cameras like seasoned politicians. Ideas began to flood his mind about what had gone wrong. Had Troy somehow replaced the 456 with a harmless fluorescing chemical? What about his UV-C flasher? Perhaps the security scanner had somehow disabled it? If so, then Troy’s had to be malfunctioning too.

  Turning toward his coconspirator, Farkas saw Troy staring back at him. Pointing his camera back at him. Then Farkas felt a fireball consuming his brain, and everything went black.

  Chapter 92

  Visual Aid

  “HE’S DIABETIC,” Troy said to the neighboring reporters as he gave Farkas a shot of epinephrine disguised as insulin. “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.”

  Troy had tried to reach Farkas before he collapsed to the floor, but too many tripods had blocked his path. Fortunately, he had the stimulant ready as backup. Now he had to get Farkas out of there before someone called an ambulance.

  Farkas’s eyes fluttered and then opened without focus.

  Troy slipped an arm under his shoulders and pulled him into a sitting position. “Come on, buddy, let’s walk it off.” He exerted more upward pressure and Farkas rose to his feet.

  “What happened?” Farkas asked, his voice weak and uncertain.

  “You forgot to take your insulin, again. Come on, let’s get you home.” Troy needed to get Farkas out of there before someone overheard Farkas ask the inevitable question: “Who are you?” And it was inevitable. There was no doubt in Troy’s mind that this time Farkas was not faking it. 456 had literally fried Farkas’s mind. His memories of Troy and Emmy and Luther and even his eight-figure payday were all up in cranial smoke.

  What wasn’t smoking was Farkas’s bombs. Troy had disabled them in the middle of the night, along with Farkas’s flasher.

  Farkas moved as though he was sleepwalking, his legs supporting his weight but his mind relying on Troy for all guidance. Troy piloted him out the visitor’s entrance into the back seat of a limo waiting on Maryland Avenue. “Hyde Field,” he told the driver, referring to Washington’s executive airport.

  “That will only take us about thirty minutes. You got me for the whole morning.”

  “The airport is just the first stop. My friend has a plane to catch.”

  “Is he all right?” the driver asked, pulling out.

  Farkas had slipped back into unconsciousness the moment the weight came off his legs.

  “He’s a diabetic. Gets this way when his insulin level is off.” Troy would have to give him another epinephrine shot when they got to the airport. Officials tended not to scrutinize those who flew private very closely, but there were limits.

  The limo driver shrugged and pulled out into traffic.

  He had done it! He had taken Farkas out of the picture and saved the United States Supreme Court. Sitting there on the cool black Naugahyde with Farkas slumped against his left shoulder, Troy felt mildly relieved but was not all atingle with the thrill of victory. He was still a long way from converting his epic tragedy into a romance.

  One hour later, after watching Farkas fly off on a charter jet to Grand Cayman and faxing the flight details to Captain Honey, Troy took the first step toward achieving his primary goals. Using Farkas’s satellite phone and mimicking Farkas’s voice, he made a call.

  “Give me the good news,” Luther said right off the bat.

  “It’s done.”

  “Fantastic. Congratulations. It hasn’t hit the news yet.”

  “And it won’t. Not for forty-eight hours. They swore everyone to silence for national security reasons.”

  “And nobody is going to risk angering the entire Supreme Court,” Luther added, half to himself.

  “I want my ten million wired immediately.”

  “Not until it hits the news. I need proof,” Luther insisted.

  “I’ve got proof. A video.”

  “They didn’t confiscate it?”

  “They kept my camera. Even made me show them my pictures s
o they could see that I hadn’t swapped out memory disks. But they didn’t know that it has a video feature that writes to a separate memory disk. I got that disk out.”

  “That will do. When will you be here?”

  “Are you at home?”

  “We just arrived.”

  “We?”

  “Emmy’s with me, remember?”

  “Right. Well, I’ve decided that it’s in my best interests for us to never meet again. So I’m just sending Troy with the video. You watch it and transfer my money this afternoon, understood?”

  “Are you sure you—”

  “I’m sure. You just transfer my money. Ten million. Today.”

  After a long pause, Luther said, “Okay.”

  “And Luther?”

  “Yes?”

  “If we do have to see each other again, it’s not going to go well for you.”

  Chapter 93

  Dirty

  BENEATH PORTENTOUS CLOUDS and a blustery wind, Troy pulled his rented Chevy into a BP station a half-mile from Luther’s estate. He did not need gas, but he wanted to hide Farkas’s effects where Luther would not discover them if the next hour did not go entirely as planned.

  Glancing down at the wallet, satellite phone, and remaining 456 vials as he slipped them beneath the spare tire, Troy realized that Farkas would be in custody now—his situation virtually identical to the one he had arranged for Troy four weeks earlier. Whatever followed next, Troy could at least feel good about that.