Swope's Ridge

by Ace Collins

  “You gotta get more speed,” Cathcart urged, his body bouncing up and down in the seat.

  Lije reached down to the center hub of the steering wheel and flipped a switch. If the Germans had done their maintenance, the vacuum-engaged dual-ratio rear end would still work and he could get another thirty miles an hour…if he could keep it from sliding into a field or hitting a pothole and fracturing one of the car’s wire wheels. He hit the switch, pushed down the clutch, and felt the car make the shift. He stomped on the gas and they began to gain speed. Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw that the storm was fading. If the car kept running, they could drive to safety.

  “Look at that! “ Lehning yelled.

  The tornado hit the Schneider farm. The barn was dismantled before their eyes. Planes and tractors were tossed hundreds of feet into the air.

  They finally got back to U.S. 83 and Lije turned south. The massive tornado was gone, pulled back up into the dark sky. A strange calm remained. When they reentered Sublette, it was as if nothing had happened.

  “We made it,” Cathcart said as the car stopped at the curb.

  “We can thank E. L. Cord,” Lije said. “Without this Auburn we’d be dead. Always admired the styling on these ’34s, but now I’m a big fan of the engineering.”

  The trio swung open the suicide doors and stepped out.

  A vaguely familiar figure stood on the sidewalk. He smiled at the trio and the vintage auto. “Guess I’m too late.”

  Lije glanced to the curb. He remembered this guy from classic car shows. “Collins, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “I drove five hundred miles because I heard about a 1934 Auburn. Wanted to see if I could buy it. But I guess you beat me to it.”

  “No,” Lije answered, “ just doing a test drive. Runs good too.” He tossed the keys to Collins and added, “You might be able to get this in an estate sale that I figure will be happening pretty soon.”

  “Thanks,” the man replied as he leaned over to check out the interior.

  Lije studied Collins for a second only to have his attention suddenly diverted by the ringing of his cell phone. He looked over at Cathcart and said, “We have service again.”

  He put the phone to his ear. “Evans here.”

  “Lije, it’s Nate Brooks.”

  “Nate, you’re not going to believe what just happened.”

  “Lije, I was wrong.” The chemistry teacher’s tone was serious.

  “About what?”

  “The formula. Mixed some up, thought it was nothing until I stirred less than a gram into water. Tiger’s dead. The cat. He drank just a bit before I could shoo him away. It ate him from the inside out in just three days.”

  Like the man in Mexico Beals had been told about.

  “Nate, what would this do to a human?”

  “It’d take longer, but it would be a horrible death. Lije, this is scary stuff. When mixed with water, it’s lethal. A few pounds in a major city’s water system could kill millions.”

  Lije was stunned. “Make sure no one sees it.”

  “Don’t worry, no one will. You have the original, and I’m destroying all records I have and cleaning the computer trail. One more thing: in its raw powder form, it’s highly combustible. It can easily be destroyed. I’ve already destroyed all I made.”

  “Good to know,” the lawyer said. “I’ll touch base with you as soon as I get back to Arkansas.”

  Lije snapped his phone shut. The German had said someone had taken the death. It had to have been the man in the milk truck.

  “Did either of you get a look at the guy driving that tanker truck leaving the Schneider farm?”

  “No, why?”

  “I think I’ve seen him before. I just can’t remember where.”

  “Let’s get something to eat,” Cathcart suggested. “I need a place to calm down this old heart of mine.”

  Lije followed them into the cafe and found his way to a booth, but mentally he was miles away. The others ordered and he barely heard them. He’d caught only a glimpse of the driver, but he looked familiar.

  “Hello,” Shalee said, moving her hand in front of Lije’s face. The waitress grinned. “Looks like a dead man walking.”

  That was it! Suddenly Kaitlyn’s death on Farraday Road made horrific sense. No longer were they just trying to save Jones. Now they were trying to save millions.

  67

  JOSHUA KLASSER LEFT HIS OFFICE, EXITED THE bank building, and walked to the parking lot. It was just past ten in the morning. He took a deep breath, casually looked both ways, then walked to his Mercedes. Slipping the keys into the ignition, he punched an address into his navigation system, started the powerful V-8, and backed out.

  He drove in silence, ignoring three calls, carefully keeping just under the speed limit. He took I-66 across the Potomac River, cruised past Falls Church, Fairfax, and Centreville. At Catharpin, he exited and drove to the Manassas National Battlefield Park. Passing a campground, he eased into a picnic area, parked, and walked to a wooden table marked with a sign that said Butcher Family Reunion. It appeared, at least for the moment, he was the only participant in the big event.

  A few minutes later a voice behind him said, “You follow directions well.”

  Klasser didn’t flinch, nor did he turn around. “Beals, I saw you in my mirror the whole way. A waste of your time. You did not have to follow me. When I told you I would meet you, I meant it.” The Mossad agent reached into his pocket. “And I removed the bug when I parked. Now what is so important that I had to book a later flight to London?”

  “Arif.”

  Klasser continued to look directly ahead. “You have found him.”

  “No, we spotted him and we know what he’s up to.”

  Allowing the Mossad agent to consider the words, the American investigator moved around the table and sat on the bench beside the other man. Beals rubbed his smooth head as he studied a face that gave away nothing. The man had to have Vulcan blood running through his veins.

  “Arif. What is this to me? I see nothing here that was worth the drive.”

  The game was on. If Klasser meant what he’d just said, he’d already be back in his car. Yet he didn’t move. He remained on the bench, his stoic face staring at the historic Civil War battleground.

  “Strange,” Beals noted, “how a place this beautiful can hold such horrific memories.”

  “Death is a relative stranger to Americans,” Klasser replied. “Your culture has seen very little of it compared to most nations. We Jews have known so much death that at times it fails to sting us. In our world, death and life walk hand in hand. In yours, death is a foreign invader you do not have the courage to look in the eye.” “And so you don’t care to look Abdul Arif in the eye?”

  “It is the past. I live in the present.”

  “He killed your brother and his family,” Beals said. “Surely you want to see him pay for those crimes.”

  “What is the value? That is what you do not understand. If a man has no value, then death is the option. Alive, Arif has knowledge that can be extracted. What could be learned from him would serve both our nations. Dead he is worthless. Ancient history is not worth reliving. You do not know where he is or you would not be here. Get to your point or I am leaving…now.”

  Beals liked Klasser. He was direct, logical, and honest. But somewhere under that hard shell there had to be a heart. He had to care much more than he would admit. Given the opportunity, he sensed the Israeli would eagerly jump back into this game.

  “Arif has obtained a huge amount of an old secret Nazi formula that, if placed in water systems, could wipe out millions. I doubt if he would’ve gone to all the trouble to track it down if he didn’t plan on using it. We are talking millions who would die deaths unimaginable. The victims would suffer in agony for weeks.”

  If his words made an impact, it didn’t show. Klasser’s expression remained placid, his body relaxed. “Call in your own government; you do not need me.
”

  Beals did need this man. He needed his contacts and his wisdom. Without him he had little chance of finding the target. “What would happen if you told that story to your organization?”

  Klasser paused, then turned to face Beals for the first time. “They would think I was crazy. Arif’s record with us makes him look like a loyal agent. I would have to launch an investigation and prove that he had turned. As I would have no evidence, the expenses allotted for this investigation would be small. Do you have any real evidence?”

  “No,” Beals admitted. “Only my word. And I can relate to what you just said. Last night when I told my contacts in the CIA and FBI, they reacted the same way. I have to bring proof before they’ll get involved. They’ve been embarrassed by too many past instances where they’ve grabbed suspected terrorists, gotten huge publicity for the arrests, then had to let them go for lack of evidence. The news media ridiculed them for making the move and some lost jobs because of that exposure. They are much more careful now. Tip lines rarely ring anymore, and when they do, they are often ignored.”

  “Such is the way of life, my friend,” Klasser replied. “You have just retold the story of the boy who cried wolf.”

  He was right. Too many innocent men and women had been targeted because of hoaxes. Now it seemed that every new lead was treated as a hoax.

  “Joshua, I have one FBI agent who will work with me, off the books. No one else. He agreed because he’s intrigued by the scenario I’ve put together and he was the lead investigator in your brother’s murder.”

  Was Klasser finally ready to crack? The man was so stoic, Beals couldn’t tell.

  Klasser’s eyes looked straight ahead, his hands were folded. “What can I do?”

  “A week ago Arif was in Germany. That was when he left for Mexico to obtain information on a long-forgotten Nazi plan called the Ark of Death.”

  “Arche des Todes.” Klasser smiled.

  “You’ve heard of it?”

  “The stories scared me to death as a child, but I grew past those fears along with my beliefs in Dracula and the Mummy. It is a myth born of propaganda used to prop up Hitler in his final days.”

  “What if I told you I took a dive in the Gulf of Mexico and found the ship on the ocean floor? Arif saw it the day before I did. He also found out what happened to its cargo and beat us to it.”

  “You are telling me it really existed? Then why was it not used? Hitler would have gladly killed millions if he could have.”

  “The war ended before it could be deployed,” Beals explained. “A group of extremely devoted SS men kept guard over the poison and the distribution equipment until two days ago. That’s when Arif discovered it and killed the last remaining Nazi who knew of the Ark’s existence. It seems he also broke into an office in Arkansas and stole the written formula. He has the poison and he can now make more.”

  “He will not use it,” Klasser said as he waved his left hand. “That is not his way. He will pass it on to someone else to deploy. He will take the payoff. Arif is not a terrorist; he is a businessman. I wish my organization, the CIA, and Interpol understood that. Then we could push him out with the rest of the trash.”

  Beals grinned. He was sure the Mossad agent was hooked. Now it was time to reel him in.

  “What do we do next?”

  “We?” Klasser asked.

  “Yeah, we.”

  “What you have told me is interesting,” the agent said, “so I will delay my trip to Israel. I will go back to my office and put out feelers for chatter on potential targets and a timetable. I will have something by tomorrow.”

  “What if the deal is done and there is no chatter?”

  “Then we have to figure out where the attack or attacks will be made. That requires guesswork and I do not like guessing on anything. If we are dealing with poison, then it is unlikely it could go very far before it is discovered. The collateral damage should be limited.”

  “This poison does not show up immediately,” Beals explained. “It’ll take days to begin to affect the body and then weeks to kill. The death is painful in ways that none of us can understand, though the eyewitness report I heard scared me to death.”

  “Antidote?”

  “None that I know of. And likely no time to find one. If you had your hands on something like that and wanted to shake the world to the core, what target would you pick?”

  The Mossad agent rubbed his chin and gazed off into the clear sky. It was likely a discussion he had had in one form or another several times before.

  “If you wanted to cripple the world financially, you hit New York. That was the object of 9/11. That would also cause the most deaths.”

  “So that’s what you think they’ll do?”

  “No, they realized their mistakes in the first attack. If they had it to do over again, they would have used all the planes to hit Washington, D.C. Chaos reigns when government leaders are brought to their knees. Imagine a scenario in which every employee in Washington suddenly died. The chain of command gone—not just one or two people, but six or seven steps below the top person. With no representatives, no senators, no Supreme Court, no cabinet, no FBI or CIA, no president or vice president, and no staff who work for all those groups, you have effectively ended the union. The only government you have left would be state and local. Who gives the orders? Who enforces the laws? Who stops the panic? No one would know. Anarchy would reign.”

  In theory the United States government couldn’t be destroyed by any military, but one man could pull it off using old Nazi science.

  Klasser stood. “I will let you know what I find. If what you say is true, Arif might well be the broker for the world’s future.”

  The little man casually walked to his car, got in, and drove out of the park, leaving Ivy Beals alone at the aptly named Butcher Reunion.

  The investigator walked over to a fountain and twisted the handle. He watched the water rise up and then fall into the basin. He released his grip, deciding he wasn’t thirsty. He might never be thirsty again.

  68

  HARLAN BRISCO RUSHED ACROSS TOWN TO KENT McGee’s office. He was running late. The attorney had been out of sight since Friday, but had now called a press conference on his defense of the other 9/11 terrorist, Omar Jones. A public-address system had been set up outside his office, and news media from all over the country had gathered.

  Because he was late, Brisco couldn’t get any closer than some thirty feet back from the mike. He wouldn’t get to ask McGee any questions.

  News was all about hooks and angles. Since he couldn’t throw up any gotcha questions, maybe he could focus on the crowd that had been camping out around the office for days, ever since his story. Protest groups had each staked out their territory with their hand-held signs. Brisco saw a dozen robed members of the KKK, three large veterans organizations, a group representing the airlines, and several high-profile church leaders. They all had one thing in common—their hatred of McGee.

  As he waited for McGee to arrive, Brisco began to feel uneasy. He’d written that first story revealing McGee’s involvement in the Jones case with the idea of making one more big splash. It was a game to him. He had once won the Pulitzer. He had exposed wrongdoing. But as he scanned the crowd and realized its explosive anger, what he had done felt dirty. Wrong. Worse than the wrongs he had exposed before.

  The common voice of the crowd grew louder as McGee walked out of his office and up to the podium. The lawyer smiled. The crowd booed and shouted. This was the Romans and the Christians, and one voice could never stand up to the mob’s rage-driven racket. Yet for some reason, the lawyer seemed unflustered. McGee even laughed and ducked when a middle-aged woman tossed a tomato. He seemed content to simply wait them out.

  Finally, curiosity calmed the crowd and McGee said, “In three weeks the state of Texas will execute Omar Jones.”

  “Let’s do it now! “ a man shouted.

  “Hang him! “ a teenager yelled.

  Hol
ding his hands up, McGee said, “I now have proof that casts considerable doubt on the conviction of Mr. Jones. The courts—”

  Screams blotted out his words. McGee stepped back from the microphone, again content to wait. Finally, when the shouts had thinned to only a few random voices, he moved back to the podium. “Justice—”

  Seven loud pops stopped his words. Amid the screams and chaos that followed, Brisco looked to the right. On a small rise just behind the parking lot stood a man with an automatic rifle still aimed toward the podium. He saw a police officer racing toward the shooter, fighting his way through the fleeing crowd. Two other officers had made it to the podium where the lawyer was lying in his own blood. His face was covered with it.

  Brisco looked back toward the shooter’s position to remember what he had seen—a white male, tall, thin, dressed in black track gear, a floppy hat. The spot was empty. The shooter was gone.

  He turned back toward the podium. Would McGee live? And if he died…

  He watched as McGee’s limp body was lifted to a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance. With lights flashing and short bursts from its siren, the ambulance rolled through what was left of the crowd and headed for Baptist Hospital.

  Brisco walked back to his car. As he was putting the key in the ignition, it hit him—McGee had found evidence that Jones was innocent. And the shooter had silenced him.

  Fear gripped the reporter as he realized what he had unleashed with his story. McGee could be dead, and in three weeks an innocent man on death row would die. He had to do something. But what? He couldn’t undo the carnage from the bullets.

  Sitting there in his car, he opened his laptop and began his story. “Famed defense attorney Kent McGee, who recently took over the case of The 9/10 Terrorist, Omar Saddam Jones, was shot today outside his office. Police are looking for the unknown assailant, but in truth the man who actually pulled the trigger will be easy to find. This reporter fired the first shot. I forced McGee’s hand. I revealed that he was defending Jones. I put the target on Kent McGee. I wrote the first words that fanned the national hatred that culminated this afternoon in the shooting in Little Rock.”