Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense

by Carter Wilson

  Find peace.

  “Thank you, Father. You’ve been most helpful.”

  Before the priest can answer, Rudiger pushes open the door and walks out of the church, his feet taking him through a winding series of streets and alleys and back into an anonymity that serves him better than any weapon.

  28

  “CHRIST, JONAS, you look like shit.”

  “You know, sir, I never tire of you telling me that.”

  Jonas kept stride with the Senator as they reached the initial security detail outside the White House. A bird chirped somewhere in the distance, and Jonas thought about how that bird had no fucking clue its nest was right next to the home of the most powerful person in the world.

  “You stay up late preparing for this?”

  That, Jonas thought, and some other extracurricular activities. Jonas had worked through the night as Anne slept peacefully in his bed. For the first time in a long time, Jonas found it difficult to leave a woman in the morning.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you’re not just going to wing it?” the Senator cracked.

  “Not unless you want me to.”

  “Not particularly.”

  They were met by one of the President’s aides, a woman who looked no older than thirty. Jonas had been to the White House before but never the West Wing, and he was struck by how much smaller everything seemed than what he had expected. It was like walking onto a television studio set and finally sensing the actual proportions of something he had only ever seen on TV, and it left him feeling underwhelmed. He knew that would change as soon as he met the President.

  “He’s running late,” the aide said. “Shouldn’t be too long a wait.”

  “Where are we meeting?” Sidams asked. “Roosevelt Room.”

  She led them down a short corridor and escorted them into a conference room. A long table with more than a dozen chairs sat in the center of the room. The walls were a creamy yellow, the color of aged paper. A large painting of FDR occupied a spot next to a grandfather clock that softly clicked away the time.

  “Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes,” she said. Her teeth were perfect, Jonas noted, something she must have been well aware of since she used every opportunity she could to smile. “There’s water on the table. Can I get you anything else?”

  “Do you have espresso?” Jonas asked.

  “We’re fine,” the Senator said, his words stomping with authority over Jonas’s query.

  “Very well, then.” Another smile, a delicate turn, and the aide disappeared from the room, closing the door behind her as she left.

  Sidams turned. “We’re in the White House for chrissakes. Ask for something American, will ya?”

  “Like shitty watered-down coffee?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  “Noted.”

  Jonas sat at the table and spread papers before him like a dealer at a blackjack table. He studied his notes for a few minutes before realizing he was at the point where if he studied more, he’d forget it all. He needed to divert his attention.

  “I think I’m in love,” he said.

  The Senator buried his face in his hands. “Oh, sweet

  Jesus.”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “How many times have you slept with her?” Sidams asked. “Once. About nine hours ago.”

  “That’s not love, son. That’s just the endorphins talking.”

  “You don’t think it’s possible?”

  Sidams shook his head, an Army General disappointed in his troops. “Shit, Jonas, I didn’t even love my wife until the fifth year of our marriage.”

  “That’s just sad.”

  “But true nonetheless. Anything before that is just lust mixed with curiosity. Only when those two things have worn off do you find out what’s really left.”

  “That’s really depressing,” Jonas said.

  The Senator dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “Not at all. It’s heaven. But only if you get to travel a lot with your job.”

  Jonas reminded himself yet another time never to get married. They spoke on the subject of love and marriage for several more minutes until the banter threatened to give way to Jonas having to reveal true emotion, so he let the conversation die a quiet and noble death.

  A comfortable and lengthy silence settled in between them, the kind that can only exist between two people who are more than mere colleagues. They were friends, Jonas knew, and because of that he felt a growing need to tell the Senator more about what he had been doing with his free time. It had become almost a conspiracy, he thought. With Anne, Jonas was tracking down a serial killer, something he had no right or skill set to do. But it was personal to him, which, in his mind, somehow afforded him latitude.

  Of course, they had no way of actually knowing Sonman was the killer so sought after, and their inability to afford evidence permitted them to keep all the information to themselves. Jonas’s involvement had surpassed the point where he should have told the Senator about it, and each passing day the prospect of doing just that became all the more pressing and simultaneously less appealing.

  “I need to tell you something,” Jonas said.

  The Senator was distracted by his BlackBerry. “Mmmmm-hmmmmm?”

  “Michael Calloway.”

  Sidams kept his gaze on the glowing little screen. “What about him?”

  Jonas squeezed his eyes shut for just a second, releasing his words along with his breath. “I think I know...”

  Sidams’s head turned toward him. “Know what?”

  Then the door opened and the President of the United

  States walked in the room.

  29

  JONATHON ROSWELL Calder was a tall man, the kind of tall that imposed rather than towered. Broad. Solid. His physical traits helped with the election—during the debates, the moment he shook hands with his opponent it was clear to all viewing who could kick ass and who could do nothing but take a beating. Despite all the issues that divided the two candidates, some polling experts posited that Calder’s menacing stature assured Americans.

  They called it the Schwarzenegger Effect. It didn’t hurt that the Calder served with distinction in Vietnam, earning two Purple Hearts.

  The President walked into the room and immediately owned it. Following him was William Stages, the U.S. Ambassador to the U.N. and a smaller but powerful player in the Accords. Jonas knew Stages by reputation but had never met him.

  “Robert, how are you?” Calder extended his hand and Sidams took it with obvious pleasure, not because the Senator needed to kiss the President’s ass but because he truly admired the man. Calder had been in office less than a year, shattering the hopes and dreams of millions of Republicans who had enjoyed White House and Senate majority occupation for sixteen years. In ten months, Calder had enacted enough programs to make the conservative right scream socialism and the moderate left feel proud about the path the country was taking for the first time in almost two decades.

  “Mr. President,” Sidams said, gripping Calder’s hand. “Good job on Meet the Press last weekend.”

  “I hate those things.”

  “Presidents don’t normally do them.”

  Calder allowed himself a stolen grin. “But I’m not a normal President.”

  “Yessir.” The Senator turned to Stages. “Bill, good to see you.”

  “I’m pleased to be helping you with the Accords,” Stages said. His enormous belly threatened to breech his shirt. “I think this could be the right team to get something done finally.”

  “Amen to that.” Sidams turned to Jonas, who only just realized he was standing at military attention. “At ease, soldier,” Sidams cracked.

  “Old habit,” Jonas said. He quickly slid his sweaty palm against his pant leg before extending his hand to the President. “Jonas Osbourne, sir. I’m the Senator’s Chief of Staff.”

  Calder took his hand and shook it. Jonas felt the raw strength in the grip; it wasn’t the iron
grip power players sometimes give just to overcompensate, but rather the reserved grip of someone who could really do some damage. Jonas fleetingly thought of George Washington, who was rumored to have been able to break open a walnut shell with one hand.

  Calder released first. “Of course, Jonas. How’s your father doing?”

  Jonas was stunned. The President must have been briefed.

  “He’s fine, sir.” The statement felt empty, and Jonas felt a disservice to his father for saying it, even to the President. “Actually,” he added, “he’s not well at all, but I appreciate you asking about him.”

  “Nasty disease,” Calder said. “Very hard for the family to watch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We served at the same time in Vietnam,” Calder said. “I didn’t know him. I was on the ground. He was in the air.”

  “I’ll give him your regards when I visit him.”

  “Please do,” Calder said. The President took a step past Jonas and surveyed the room, while Jonas introduced himself to Stages. There was a knock on the door and a different aide entered before permission was granted.

  “Mr. President, we’re running about twenty minutes—”

  “Adrian, I know the schedule,” Calder said, looking at the grandfather clock. “We’re late. We’re always late. They can wait.”

  “Yes, sir.” The aide disappeared.

  Calder turned and looked at Jonas. “You were a Ranger.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mogadishu. Ninety-three.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  Calder nodded, his approval clear.

  “You were wounded by one of your own men,” he said.

  Where is this going? Jonas wondered.

  “A private in my command reacted adversely to a tense situation.”

  “I read up on you,” Calder said. His voice had a hint of New England inflection. “I know Robert here is the name attached to the Peace Accords, but I also know how much he likes to delegate. The Accords are critical for my presidency, so I make sure to know about all the players involved.” The President paused as he looked at Jonas. The grandfather clock ticked quietly away behind him. “He threw a grenade at you,” Calder said. “That’s what the report on the incident says.”

  “Yes, sir. He killed a Somali family.”

  “Jesus Christ.” The room fell silent as Jonas wondered whether he said too much. “Somalia was a mess as it was,” Calder continued. “Doesn’t help when your own men go rogue.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jonas had a sudden and burning urge to tell the President everything. Everything he wanted to tell Sidams. Everything about Rudy Sonman.

  “Tell me about Denver,” Calder said, changing the subject. “I don’t want the details, not yet. Give me the overview.” Everyone in the room remained standing as Jonas did as commanded. He gave his briefing, mentally slicing through his rehearsals and lopping off details he could sense the President didn’t want. He spoke for less than five minutes, and the whole time President Calder remained silent and motionless. Unreadable.

  Jonas finished and no one stepped in to fill the void. Finally, Calder nodded his head. “Good,” he said. “Good.” Then he took a step toward Jonas. “Jonas, I don’t want this to be a bullshit summit. Every President has a bullshit peace summit. The leaders meet for a photo op of a handshake, then they go home and keep pushing bulldozers through houses. I don’t want that. If we can’t get something done in Denver, I don’t even want to have it. Trying is not enough.” Sidams spoke. “We understand, Mr. President, and we’re completely committed to this effort.”

  Calder turned toward the Senator. “I know you are, Robert. Your political capital is on the line here. Bill’s, too. We all have our careers at some kind of risk here, don’t we?” The President took a step back to better address all three men in the room. “Gentlemen, let me tell you what I want. I want a Palestinian state by the end of my first term, just like I promised. We’re not likely to have another summit, so this is our best shot while everyone’s sitting at the same table. I want to be tough and I don’t want bullshit promises. Israel and the PLO are as close politically as they’ve ever been so the time is now or never. But we’re going to have to ask Israel to give up more than they have ever been willing to do. Asking will be the easy part. Getting them to do it will take both brains and balls. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Sidams said.

  Calder turned back to Jonas. “You look like a tough son of a bitch. You up for the task?”

  “I am, sir.”

  Sidams quipped, “He just got hit by a car and lived to tell about it.”

  “Yeah,” the President said, shaking hands and preparing to leave. “I read about that. But let me tell you something. If I had to choose between a speeding car or a pissed off Israeli coming head on towards me, I’d choose the car.”

  30

  CALL ME

  Anne’s text message glared at Jonas. He wondered what she wanted.

  “Good job,” Sidams said. Jonas kept a half-step behind Sidams as the men walked away from the White House. “There’ll be more briefings as we get closer, but that was good. You didn’t seem nervous.”

  “I was scared as hell,” Jonas said. “I doubt that.”

  “Okay, maybe a little anxious.”

  “You did fine.” The Senator sucked in a heavy breath. “Goddamn we have a lot of work to do before this thing.”

  “That we do.” Jonas slowed his pace. “I’m going to make a call—mind if I meet you back in the office?”

  “No problem.” Then the Senator stopped. “Hey, what were you talking about earlier? About Michael Calloway?” Jonas thought through the several different ways he could go with this before deciding on the easy out. “It’s something

  I need to talk to you about, but I think it can wait a bit.”

  “Are you in over your head with something? Are you losing time at work over it?”

  Yes, Jonas thought. And yes. “No.”

  Sidams nodded. “Good enough for me, then. I trust you. Fill me in later, but it better not be something that bites us in the ass.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Senator continued his walk alone towards his office as Jonas dialed Anne.

  “There you are,” she said. “How was your meeting with the President?”

  “It was good,” he said. “I outlined my health care plan for him and he seemed to like it?”

  “Oh, yeah? What plan is that?”

  “Survival of the fittest. No doctors. No medicine. Just

  Darwinism.”

  “Oh, that sounds just like something a Democrat would

  love.”

  “Hey, it would save a ton of money.”

  “Seriously, Jonas, how was it?”

  “It was great, actually.”

  “Tell me all about it later?”

  Jonas smiled into his phone. “I’d love to. So your message sounded urgent. Or are you usually an all-caps texter? Because that could get annoying.”

  Anne’s tone changed instantly. “A woman was beaten to death a couple of weeks ago in Cleveland.”

  “Sonman?”

  “She was killed in her home. But there was security video inside a grocery store where she had just been shopping. Shows her interacting briefly with a man who followed her out of the store. He’s unidentified, but police entered his physical description into the NCIC database.”

  “Let me guess. He had a nasty scar on his ear.”

  “I’ve had a standing order to flag any ear injuries that come across the database. This is the first hit.”

  “It’s not his M.O. Why would he beat a woman to death?”

  “Hold on. You think I would call you with this kind of flimsy story? It gets more interesting.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The video image was shown on the local news. It was picked up by other affiliates in the region. There had been a few tips, but nothing that’s been fruitful. One of the tips
came from a woman in Pittsburgh. Name’s Rose Fitzgerald.”

  “So?”

  “So, she says she thinks she knows the guy. Said he looks like her long lost brother, who ran away from home when he was seventeen. Said he had a horrible wound to his ear.”

  “What else did she say?”

  Anne paused. “She said his name was Rudiger.”

  31

  JONAS LOOKED at the clock on his computer. Just after ten. Even with the longer days the sun had disappeared hours before he’d last gotten up to get more coffee, and now he found himself alone in the office, the halogens above him humming like a distant swarm of insects. Even the workhorse Senator had gone home. Jonas had work to do, in fact he had so much it didn’t matter how much coffee he drank because he’d never get to it.

  But that wasn’t why he was still at work.

  His phone chirped the arrival of a text message. Anne.

  She’s here.

  Okay, Jonas thought. Here we go. He punched the tiny keys on his BlackBerry.

  Same address you gave me earlier? Yes.

  Be there in 15.

  The drive was easy, especially at this time of night. Jonas felt a gnawing anxiousness as he gripped the steering wheel.

  Tonight, Jonas thought. Tonight we’re going to have to tell the FBI everything.

  They met at a safe house. Jonas had never been to one before.

  The safe house was in fact a dilapidated townhouse, one of several in a grouping that extended a city block. Ugly, homogenous, forgettable. Perfectly sensible for the purpose it served.

  Jonas checked the address as he walked along a cracked sidewalk toward the unit. He noticed a grey sedan across the street with two silhouettes in the front seat. Jonas tucked the image not far beneath the surface of his most conscious thoughts.

  Anne opened the door before he knocked. She kissed him on the cheek as she let him in.

  “Why are we meeting here?” he asked.

  She nodded to the gray sedan across the street. “They’re doing us a favor because I was the one who saw the significance of her tip. If we went straight with her to the Hoover Building, there’s no way we’d get to talk to her first. I have a friend who’s letting us talk to her here first. We get an hour.”