by C. G. Cooper
“What if the companies don’t want the publicity?” asked Cal.
“It still doesn’t make any sense. If company stock takes that big of a hit, the stockholders, especially the big ones, would be in an uproar. It’s as if they knew it was coming.”
Cal didn’t know much about stocks other than the fact that his grandfather had given him ten shares each of Coke and Disney when he was a kid. He’d always let the experts handle his money. “So let’s reach out to the companies and see what they say.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? Don’t you own some of those stocks with your clients?”
“Sure, but it’s not that easy. We’ve got sort of a code on Wall Street. You don’t go looking for a rat unless the damn thing’s already caught.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Leo thought about how to explain it better. “Have you ever noticed how celebrities never talk bad about one another?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“It’s because Hollywood is too small. All the big names know each other to some degree. Plus, not everyone churns out hit after hit. Even the top actors and bands flop every once in a while. They know that and treat each other with respect even though most of them don’t like one another. It’s the same thing on Wall Street. Throwing an accusation around is like waging war on your neighbor. You’ll never hear the end of it.”
Cal thought it was kind of juvenile, but he could understand it. “Okay, so you can’t do it, but we can, right?”
“Sure. But you’re not getting paid to do that.”
“I know. Just call it our patriotic duty. Besides, I wouldn’t mind ruffling a few Wall Street feathers.”
“Ruffling feathers is what Cal does best,” announced Trent.
Leo laughed. “Okay. Tell me what you need.”
+++
Paris, France
8:04 a.m., March 8th
Jonas Layton strolled through the nearly empty park, a sole bum, braver than his friends, lay on a pile of cardboard on the stone pavement, covered in a mound of old bedding. A thin line of steaming breath the only sign that the man was still alive.
The breeze made the thirty degree weather feel like the negatives, Layton keeping his collar cinched tight. The park was probably half the size of a baseball field, scattered trees looked like haunting ghouls, ice clinging to their branches, bending them in unnatural positions. The American shifted the Yankees ball cap on his head, scanning carefully behind his Persol sunglasses.
He was being watched and he’d already caught glimpses of figures on the periphery. They were being cautious, careful. What did they want? Layton rarely travelled without security, but he’d taken the Secretary of State’s assurance that he’d be well protected under his own umbrella. The problem was, he no longer trusted Dryburgh. The American diplomat had asked to meet later in the day, but Layton told his friend he would be leaving on a noon flight back to the States. It was past time to go.
As he made his way to the far exit, where two looming sculptures of long-forgotten heroes stood facing away from the park, Layton could feel the convergence of multiple contacts on his highly tuned radar. Hyper observant, he tracked a knitted cap to the left, a pair of brown loafers to the right, the sounds of faint shuffles behind. He picked up his pace, thinking to make the stoned entrance before the others. Too late, they paced his strides as if in sync.
Fear crept up his back like a troop of stringy-legged spiders. Layton’s pulse quickened, pupils dilated, but he kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, carefully measuring the distance to freedom.
As he passed through the exit, two men approached from his left and right, a quick peripheral glance pinpointing the black weapons hanging at their sides.
“Mr. Layton, we’d like to have a word with you,” said the man on the right in heavily accented English. French for sure. He wore a brown checkered knit cap over a head that Layton assumed to be bald, dark piercing eyes a mismatch to his smiling mouth. Probably just over six feet tall, the man’s muscular physique was evident even under the layers of wool and cotton.
“I’m sorry, what is this about?” asked Layton, trying to keep his voice steady as he clenched his fists inside their protective cocoons.
“Monsieur, we can’t say here, but it is a matter of national security.”
If he hadn’t been so scared he would have laughed. National security seemed to be the excuse for any and all nefarious actions around the world. “I have a plane to catch.”
The man to his right had closed in and stood watching, his black overcoat swaying with the breeze, no smile on his face, just the cold stare of a professional used to violence.
“That won’t be possible, monsieur. We will be happy to book you another.”
“Gentlemen, I suggest you contact my attorney if you’d like a word. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Layton stepped off the curb, careful to avoid a divot full of slush. He felt an iron grip on his right arm and stopped, blood pumping faster, adrenaline kicking.
As if on cue, four nondescript French sedans came tearing from different directions, lights flashing red and blue, no sirens. The two men looked up in surprise, the one holding Layton loosening his grip slightly. In the next five seconds no less than ten men, all dressed in impeccably tailored suits, jumped out of the vehicles and started yelling at the two strangers in French to drop their weapons and get on the ground. They did as they were told, weapons first, followed by their slow descent to the ground with hands raised.
Layton breathed a sigh of relief as they were cuffed and thrown into the waiting cars, both men glaring angrily at their intended target. The smallest of the ten men to arrive stepped up to Layton. “Are you well, Jonas?”
Layton nodded. “I wasn’t sure you guys were watching.”
The man shrugged, doing a funny twitch with his bushy mustache. “You know how we work, Jonas. Always watching.”
“Thank you, Lucas. I owe you one.”
Lucas shrugged as if what they’d done was nothing. “We will have a talk with these men and let you know what we find out. Now, may I offer you a ride to the airport? Your bags are in my trunk.”
“That would be great, thanks.” Layton followed the French intelligence chief to his car, grateful that he’d given Lucas a little help a year before with an issue that had plagued his service for months, but which Layton had cracked in minutes.
“I forgot to tell you. The men watching you from the other side of the park have also been apprehended and are on their way to interrogation as well.”
Layton shook his head, ever amazed by the seamless expertise of true professionals.
Chapter 36
The White House
7:15 a.m., March 8th
President Zimmer had been at it for over an hour, signed and sealed bills and intelligence reports stacked neatly in his OUT box. Despite the events of the day before, he felt rejuvenated. Preliminary reports from Johns Hopkins suggested the drug he’d been given had been manufactured specifically to induce stress, fatigue and possibly hallucinations at the right dosage. They wouldn’t know for sure until they’d done some more testing, but the doctor told the president with near certainty that any lingering effects should be out of his body in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
So many things made sense after that revelation. The paranoia, the high blood pressure, the nerves he’d never felt before. Zimmer had privately thought that maybe the office of president was just too big for him, a task he was unworthy of. There were days when he’d barely kept it together, like when he’d offered the positions to Travis Haden and Marge Haines. That had been one of the lows and he mentioned it to Travis. His loyal Chief of Staff had agreed with the assessment, even telling his boss about the concerns he’d had about taking the job due to Zimmer’s weakened state.
Even though the symptoms might not have been fully purged, Zimmer felt stronger just knowing it wasn’t him, that it had been something else influenci
ng his body and mind. But that still left issues unresolved. Who had put Santos Lockwood up to it? Travis suggested they ask Southgate, what with his recent attempt to capsize the president. The list was short, but had the potential of growing exponentially should they let their imaginations run wild. Any president, no matter how popular, had any number of enemies, mostly unseen, seeking to discredit his legitimacy.
As he was signing yet another letter to a foreign leader, this one to the ambassador of Ghana, his desktop phone rang. By the flashing light he could tell it was his ever efficient secretary. He pressed the speaker button.
“Mr. President, I hate to disturb you, but I have Congressman McKnight on the phone. He said it was urgent.”
Zimmer knew McKnight from his time in The House. They’d been in the same freshman class of representatives. He didn’t know McKnight personally, but he’d seen the way the young Floridian was being groomed by the Republican Party to be one of its up-and-coming leaders.
“Did he say what he wants?”
“Yes, sir, he says it’s about Mr. Lockwood.”
Other than Travis, Lester Miles, the president and the Secret Service, the rest of the White House staff was told that Lockwood died of a massive heart attack. It wasn’t the whole truth, but until the investigation into Lockwood’s co-conspirators concluded, no one needed to know anything but the fact that he died of natural causes. Zimmer wondered how in the hell McKnight had heard about it.
“Did he say what specifically?”
“Yes, sir. Apparently Congressman McKnight and Mr. Lockwood were roommates in college and he’s calling on behalf of Mr. Lockwood’s family.”
That surprised Zimmer. Other than their Hispanic heritage, Lockwood and McKnight were polar opposites. Hell, one was a Democrat and the other was a very right leaning conservative.
“Put him through please, Ellen.”
Zimmer waited for the proper number of clicks to sound. “Good morning, Tony,” Zimmer said warmly.
“Good morning, Mr. President. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
“No, not at all. Just the usual pile of nonsense.”
McKnight laughed dutifully. “I assume your secretary told you why I’m calling?”
“Something about Santos Lockwood?”
“Yes, sir. We were friends, roommates actually, at Florida State.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss. I just heard about it.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I’m also very close with his mother. She was sort of, well, my mom and dad were never around and Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood sort of adopted me in college. Mrs. Lockwood is very upset, as you can imagine, and wants the body sent home as soon as possible. She’s getting some pushback from the Secret Service and asked if I could help. I didn’t promise anything, but I told her I’d look into it. I’ve called the Secret Service, got passed around a couple times until I told them who I was, and they told me it’s normal procedure that they do a full autopsy. Something about dying in the White House. It sounded, well, like an official statement when they can’t really say what’s going on. Is there something they’re not telling me?”
The president didn’t know how to respond. He shouldn’t say anything, but he felt for Lockwood’s mother. “I’m sure it’s just policy, like they said.”
“I understand.” McKnight was silent for a moment, and then said, “Mr. President, could you do me one more favor?”
“Name it.”
“If you hear anything, would you mind having someone give me a heads-up? If Santos was up to anything, I’d like to soften the blow with his mom if I can.”
“I will.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. One last thing, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re doing a helluva job given the situation. I know we’re supposed to be on opposite teams, but I’d like to say that I’m here to help if you ever need me.”
“I appreciate that, Tony. I’ll definitely keep you in mind. Have a good day.”
Zimmer replaced the phone in its cradle. He wondered if there could be any connection between McKnight and Lockwood’s attempt to influence the presidency. He’d have to mention it to Travis and let him run it down. Like most of his daily conversations, the busy president put his latest out of his mind, and got back to work.
+++
Tony McKnight replayed the conversation with the President. He’d practiced what he wanted to say and Zimmer acted predictably, even telling McKnight without outright saying that the Secret Service was investigating Santos. The congressman had to be careful, but he was confident of his abilities. He was confident that not a shred of evidence existed to implicate him with Lockwood’s scheme. There’d been numerous middle men who’d provided the doctored drug Lockwood gave the president. The plan had worked to perfection up until his untimely death.
A friend of a friend had one day mentioned to McKnight on a trip overseas that a former Russian scientist was making millions on the underground medical market by supplying various criminal organizations with undetectable poisons made from common plants readily found around the world. Poison was older than human kind, and had been used for centuries as an effective tool. There was something poetic about its beauty, McKnight thought.
He’d had Lockwood track down the scientist’s organization and put in several small orders through American small businesses who were only too happy to take delivery of the tiny packages and forward them on to P.O. Boxes in Virginia and Maryland. Never once had McKnight had direct contact with any of the packages or contacts. He did, however, have all the information should the need arise to let someone else take the fall.
Making his mind up, he began laying down plans for the official unveiling. He had just the person in mind to become his scapegoat.
Chapter 37
Paris, France
1:25 p.m., March 8th
They’d separated the five mercenaries into different cells. The first hour was spent with polite questioning, Lucas doing most of the talking, as the stripped down mercenaries refused to talk. It was obvious that these men were trained to take interrogation, silent across the board. But Lucas was a professional, a patient man, a former spy turned protector of France. He’d spent the last ten years battling the influx of Middle Easterners looking to turn his country into another haven for smugglers and terrorists. Lucas despised most of the citizenry of France, too consumed with touting the superiority of French cuisine or railing against the Americans to see that their beloved country was growing a cancer which could no longer be walled off with concrete.
By the second hour, Lucas knew that three out of the five men were muscle and nothing more, paid to give the crew some added firepower. After the fingerprinting came back, they found that all five men were former French Foreign Legionaries, a revelation that didn’t surprise Lucas, who in his late teens and early twenties had spent five years with the famous commandos. As was common in specialized military branches around the world, many Legionaries went on to have extended careers in private security companies, only retiring when they were too old to keep up, or too dead to care.
The leader of the small band, the eloquent man who’d spoken to Jonas Layton, went by the name Taureau, which in French means bull. His real name was Alexandre Fortier, and after some digging, and a phone call with an old comrade, Lucas found out that Fortier was employed by a quickly growing French security company called Sécurité Lion International. Lucas knew the outfit to be tight-lipped and any phone call he made would most assuredly go unanswered. The company was a constant thorn in law enforcement’s side, having already been implicated in half a dozen shoot-outs that year.
To Lucas they were no better than common thugs, although this Fortier fellow seemed to be one of the exceptions, his blue eyes scanning carefully, thoughtfully, not a hint of rage like the others. Lucas sat across the heavily scratched metal table from Fortier, whose hands were shackled to the bolted steel chair, making him lean down every time he took a drag from his unfiltered Gauloises cigarette.
The microphones and video cameras kept rolling as Lucas waited patiently, looking for any sign that the man wanted to talk. None came. “Tell me, Taureau, what did you want with Mr. Layton?”
Fortier shrugged, cracking his thick neck from side to side. “I told you, I was only given orders to escort him.”
“Yes, yes, I forgot. And who did you say hired you?”
Another lazy shrug. “I didn’t because I don’t know. Why don’t you call my boss?”
Lucas chuckled. “You know as well as I do that your employer will never take my call unless we have a warrant from the government. Now, while I could do that, and have you sit in a cell as those wretched bureaucrats decide which one will steal the credit for taking your company down, I’d much rather handle this between us, two old Legionaries, eh?”
“You were in the Legion?”
“Oui.”
“You’re pretty small.”
Lucas smiled. “I had my talents. I still do.”
Fortier took another drag from his cigarette, sizing up Lucas for the first time. “You know I can’t say anything.”
“I know. Look, I’m happy to look the other way, and call this a, well, we won’t call it anything. I’m sure your employer will be upset enough about you not completing the job. Wouldn’t he be even more upset to find out that we picked you up?”
Fortier didn’t answer, but Lucas knew the truth. As the team leader, Fortier would more than likely take the heat, maybe even have to pay a penalty out of his own paycheck. Such men rarely parted with their money easily.
“Alex, all I need is to know where you were taking Mr. Layton. Tell me that to my satisfaction, and I will let you go, I’ll even destroy the paperwork.”
“And why would you do that? Just a favor for a fellow Legionnaire?”
“Unfortunately, no. Let us simply say that Mr. Layton is a very good friend of my employer and of our government. They would be very unhappy to find out that you and your company were involved in harming such a good friend.”
