The Imposter's Trail (The Sean Kruger Series Book 3)

by J. C. Fields

  The sound of scooting chairs and paper rustling permeated the room. While Kruger knew he should be nervous sitting in the halls of power, he was surprisingly relaxed. He sat back, anxious to see how the President handled all the egos gathered in the room.

  The President looked over his glasses. “It’s good to see you again, Joseph.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  The President cleared his throat. “I’ve asked all of you here to discuss a particularly troubling problem that has just recently been exposed. As we all know, Agent Kruger helped prevent an attack last year that could have been more devastating than 9/11. Your nation is grateful, Sean.” The President nodded in Kruger’s direction. “Since then, Director Stumpf and his agency, along with the help of Admiral Berry’s group, have uncovered numerous plots by groups who seem determined to continue this mission. Most of these groups claim affiliation with overseas terrorists. ISIS has been mentioned, as has the various cells of Al Qaeda.

  “With the assistance of Director King’s CIA and Secretary Black’s Homeland Security, we have prevented several smaller attacks from occurring. You are all to be congratulated.”

  Kruger smiled. Egos had been stroked. Well done, Mr. President.

  The President continued, “However, I did not call you all together to break our arms patting each other on the back. We need to do more. It’s the lone wolf, so to speak, that keeps me awake at night. The individuals who continue to defy detection. The man who showed up at a church prayer meeting and gunned down nine innocent citizens, and the five police officers killed in Dallas a while back come to mind. Not one of these individuals were affiliated with any known group. How do we stop them?”

  The following discussion lasted more than forty minutes. The President listened, made notes, nodded his head occasionally, but remained quiet. Paul Stumpf spoke first. “Mr. President, it is my personal opinion we, as a collective group, need to step back and divorce ourselves from this task.”

  Everyone looked at Stumpf with a quizzical stare, but the President smiled slightly. Paul continued, “By no means do I mean abandon the task, but to put fresh eyes on it. We all know that if one agency is assigned this duty, it will become encumbered with our normal bureaucratic mentality. We can’t afford that. The mission is too critical. Each of our respective agencies struggle to work together, even though we say we do. Assigning a joint task force won’t solve anything either.”

  Everyone in the room shot fugitive glances at their counterparts and then nodded slightly. The President nodded. “I agree, go on.”

  “Therefore, I would propose the following: Assign this task to a new entity created specifically for the purpose of seeking out and monitoring individuals contemplating atrocities within our borders.”

  The President smiled. “Who do you propose this group answer to?”

  “You, sir.”

  Silence permeated the room, all eyes turned to the President as he doodled on the notes in front of him. Finally after several minutes of quiet, the President looked up and surveyed the room. “The idea has merit. However, the mechanics and funding would need to be ironed out before I give my consent. Do you have it figured out, Paul?”

  Stumpf opened a tan nine-by-thirteen envelope and extracted a manila folder. He slid it across the table toward the President.

  “This document outlines our proposal. Details on structure and funding are included. Each of the groups in this room will have a support role, but the new group will need total autonomy to function properly.”

  Osborne opened the file, scanned the documents briefly and nodded. “I like this. Work out the details and present them to Bob.” He rose from the chair and everyone stood. “Would Senator Griffin, Joseph, and Agent Kruger follow me?”

  Kruger frowned as he looked at Joseph and Griffin. Both shrugged. They followed the President out of the room through a door leading to the Oval Office. As soon as the door was shut, Osborne said, “Gentlemen, please have a seat.”

  Everyone found seats, and the President sat behind his desk. He placed his elbows on the surface and made a steeple with his hands and fingers. He pressed them against his lips and took a deep breath. “As you probably guessed, this meeting was more for show than anything else. Paul and I worked the plan out months ago. We just need the others on board.” He paused for several seconds. “Which we do. Now comes the hard part. Senator, I need you to sponsor a bill that funds this group. It needs to be properly funded, but hidden. We can’t have questions being asked at this time.”

  Griffin nodded.

  The President looked at Joseph. “My old friend, Joseph, has had a team of rapid response professionals assembled for several years. Not too many people are aware of it, but they have been dispatched to several hot spots around the globe over the years and have been quite successful. They will be the arms and legs of this new group.”

  He turned his attention to Kruger. “Agent Kruger.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why I keep referring to you as an agent.”

  “The thought crossed my mind several times.”

  Chuckling, Osborne continued, “Because you were never classified as retired. A slight of hand on my part and Director Stumpf. You were classified as taking a leave of absence. Your tenure is still in place, as are your benefits. I appreciate your assistance over the past year on the various projects I’ve sent your way. You’ve been most helpful.”

  “It was my pleasure, sir.”

  “You will be the head of this new group. Joseph has told me he would prefer to assist.”

  Joseph nodded.

  Kruger stared at the President. “With all due respect, sir, I haven’t agreed to come back at this point.”

  President Osborne nodded slightly, but retained his friendly demeanor. “True, but don’t turn it down until you learn the details. I have a feeling you will find the position irresistible.” The president changed the subject abruptly. “I understand you have a very competent asset in place that can assist with research.”

  Kruger shot a concerned look at Joseph.

  “Relax, Sean,” the President grinned. “Who do you think signed a pardon for his old identity? We’ll start small and see how it goes.” As he stood, everyone followed suit. “If you will excuse me, the ambassador from Spain has requested a meeting.” He walked toward the door of the room and opened it. Before stepping out, he turned. “Make this work, gentlemen. I just hope we’re not too late.”

  With this remark, he walked out of the room.

  Chapter 7

  West of Atlanta, GA

  The home invasion occurred on the sixth day. Over the course of the first three days, the intruder tracked the comings and goings of the rural mansion intently, making note of who arrived and when. The structure was located in an upscale community on five wooded acres. Security was both electronic and structural. Cameras were spaced every hundred feet of the eight-foot wrought iron fence topped with electrified razor wire. The fence surrounded the property. A locked gate controlled by a keypad kept unwanted vehicles from entering the compound. The owner never left, and there were few visitors. A housekeeper arrived at exactly 7:30 in the morning and left before 5 each evening. UPS and FedEx trucks made regular stops, but they were required to wait at the gate for the housekeeper.

  The only other activity was a contract landscaping crew that arrived on the fourth day of the intruder’s observation. They arrived, punched in a code, and did their work. Afterward they left with no interaction with the occupants of the house.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day, Bishop observed the reclusive Stephen Blair walking in his back yard. Using a digital camera with a long telephoto lens, he snapped several pictures of the self-imposed hermit. The pictures allowed Bishop to make his final preparations for the next part of his plan.

  The housekeeper was a middle-aged woman of Hispanic descent. She gained access each morning by touching the key pad at the gate and driving throu
gh after it opened. A five-car garage was attached to the west side of the mansion. As she drove up, the space next to the house would open, and once she parked inside, the door immediately closed.

  Gaining access to the property from the surrounding land would be difficult, with the security cameras providing forewarning. The housekeeper seemed the best possibility for gaining entrance. On the evening of the fifth day, Randolph Bishop followed her home.

  ***

  Stephen Blair was brilliant. His parents knew this, but also knew he had challenges. As a teenager and college student, the challenges were controlled with medication. During those years, the meds actually worked for Stephen. They allowed him to graduate with a master’s degree before his twenty-first birthday and start a highly successful e-commerce company by his twenty-third. However, the pressures of running a multimillion-dollar corporation and the publicity of being a successful entrepreneur drove him back into seclusion. The meds could not overcome Stephen’s new level of fear. He quietly turned the company over to his father and disappeared behind the walls of a newly purchased estate. Fifteen years later, he was still there.

  Stephen was in the kitchen making coffee when Camila burst clumsily into the room. Not quite five feet tall and weighing less than a hundred pounds, she was no match for the six-foot tall Bishop, who shoved her roughly through the doorway. Her head snapped back as his hand pulled her braided ponytail, stopping her forward motion. Stephen saw terror in her dark brown eyes, but she remained quiet.

  His gaze turned toward the tall man behind her. Stephen did not know much about handguns, but he knew one when he saw it. A large black pistol was pointed straight at the back of Camila’s head.

  With his fear of being seen temporarily overcome by his concern for Camila, he said, “What the hell’s the meaning of this?” Looking at the man as he spoke, there was a sudden sense of familiarity. The man was several inches taller than Stephen. But, the hair was the same dark brown and cut exactly the same. The man’s green eyes were the same as the ones Stephen saw every morning in the mirror.

  The man kept the pistol pointed at Camila. “Shut up and do what I tell you, or the woman dies.”

  “There’s no money in the house, if that’s what you’re after.”

  The man shook his head and chuckled. “No, that’s not what I’m after.”

  Camila stared at Stephen. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stephen, he followed me home…”

  “Shut up,” the intruder yelled. “Don’t say another word.”

  As the gun pressed harder against the petite woman’s head, she grimaced, her eyes shut tight.

  Stephen wasn’t crazy, but his disabling fear of anyone looking or staring at him caused people to think he was. To overcome this fear, he ran the company from the seclusion of his five acre estate in rural Georgia, just outside the western edge of Atlanta. Meetings with the management team were held via a secure video link, with Stephen’s image blurred for everyone in the meeting. This system worked remarkably well, considering the challenges of dealing with a CEO no one ever saw. It worked well until the day Randolph Bishop pushed Stephen’s housekeeper through the door connecting the laundry room and the kitchen.

  With the initial shock of the confrontation wearing off, Stephen Blair realized someone was staring at him. Perspiration appeared on his forehead, and he felt faint. He steadied himself by putting both hands on the kitchen countertop and took a deep breath.

  Bishop smiled. “Still have scopophobia, don’t you, Blair? Perfect.”

  Stephen let out a long breath and took another deep one. He didn’t look at Bishop, but stared at a spot on the wall. “Who are you?”

  Bishop laughed. “I’m you, Stephen. Can’t you tell?”

  Stephen forced himself to look closer at the man with the gun. There was a slight resemblance, not exact, but close. The man’s facial features resembled a cross between his own and his father’s. He stammered, “How?”

  “The miracle of the internet and a remarkable, but now dead, plastic surgeon in Hong Kong. Isn’t it amazing? The man did a better job than I realized. I thought I would look too old, but I can see you’ve aged.”

  Stephen’s face contoured in comprehension. “You can’t. No one will believe you’re me.”

  “On the contrary, you’re the ideal candidate. I’ll make the perfect impostor. No one has seen you in almost fifteen years. Both of your parents are dead, and you have no brothers or sisters. The only people who know about me are you and Camila here.” The man pressed the gun harder against the woman’s temple. She cringed and let out a gasp.

  “No. Leave Camila alone. She’s done nothing to harm you.”

  “I have no intentions of hurting her. But from now on, she will be a permanent resident. Insurance, let’s say, to keep you quiet while I learn about your company.”

  Stephen started shaking and his legs felt like they were anchored to the floor. He whispered again, “Who are you?”

  “Stephen, it’s not important for you to know who I am.” The man’s slightly jovial demeanor changed abruptly. His eyes narrowed and his tone lowered, “Stop asking.”

  Just as quickly, the smile returned. He lowered the gun. “I need coffee.” Looking at Camila, he pointed at a coffee pot. “If you’re smart, señorita, you will stop crying and get me a cup of coffee.”

  Bishop leaned against the breakfast bar separating the kitchen and breakfast nook. He sipped his coffee and gazed at the two individuals sitting at a small dining table. Camila was still whimpering, and Stephen Blair studied the wood grain of the table top, perspiration beading on his forehead. Bishop set the coffee cup down.

  “When do you talk to your management team, Stephen?”

  “Not today.”

  Bishop leaned forward and slapped Camila aside the head. She screamed and cried harder. “Not the correct answer, Stephen. You have a video conference daily. When is it?”

  Stephen shook his head, tears formed in the corners of his eyes. He closed his eyes as tears ran down his cheeks. He took a deep breath. “Ten this morning. It’s 10 every morning Eastern Time, 9 for the Dallas office and 8 for the Denver office.”

  “That’s more like it,” Bishop nodded. “Now you will attend the meeting as usual this morning, and I will make sure you do not blurt out anything inappropriate.”

  “What are you going to do?” Stephen could not look at Bishop. He continued to stare at the top of the table.

  “The señorita and I will be in the same room, listening. If you say anything at all about your current situation, she will die and so will you. It would be unfortunate for me, two years of planning down the drain. But if it’s necessary, I will not hesitate to kill both of you. Do you understand the seriousness of your situation, Stephen?”

  Stephen closed his eyes and nodded.

  “Good.” Bishop looked at his watch. “It’s 8:30, we have some time to get to know each other better.”

  ***

  Forty five minutes after starting, the teleconference concluded. Stephen Blair had listened and offered few comments and no directions. The sight of Bishop holding a gun to Camila’s head just out of view of the camera on Stephen’s laptop, kept him subdued. As Stephen watched, the members of his management team gathered their papers and prepared to leave the conference room. The company’s senior vice president, Thomas Zimmerman returned his attention to the camera. “Stephen, you’ve been unusually quiet this morning. Is everything okay?”

  “Everything is fine, Tom. I’m just a little under the weather this morning.”

  “Very well,” Zimmerman nodded. “Have you considered my proposal yet?”

  Stephen shook his head. “No, Tom, I don’t believe we have the funds to expand to the West Coast at this time. I don’t wish to discuss it again.” Instead of waiting for an answer or comment, Stephen ended his side of the conference by closing the lid of the laptop.

  Bishop smiled. “Very good, Stephen. Both of you get to live another day.”

  ***

>   Thomas Zimmerman was in his mid-fifties, with receding silver hair revealing more of his forehead than he liked. He was one of the original members of the management team put together by Stephen’s father ten years ago. Now he was the number two man, answering only to Stephen.

  He stared at the blank computer screen. “What that hell was that all about?”

  Wendy Morgan, Vice President of Sales, stopped gathering her files and looked at him. “What did you say, Tom?”

  Zimmerman shook his head. “I hope that wasn’t a sign Stephen is getting worse. His last comment didn’t make any sense.”

  She smiled. “You know Stephen…”

  “I know, but this was way out in left field.”

  She frowned. “Okay, I’m not following you.”

  “I just asked Stephen if he had considered my proposal.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one about bringing in a new therapist. She’s had lots of success treating individuals with Stephen’s condition. He was excited about it when we discussed it last week, but he wanted to think about it some more.”

  She remained quiet and continued to look at Zimmerman.

  “His comment wasn’t remotely related to the idea. He just told me we wouldn’t be expanding to the West Coast. I’ve never discussed an expansion, because it’s not necessary. Then he breaks the connection before I can correct him? That’s not like Stephen at all.”

  Morgan sat back down at the table and asked, “Is he losing it, Tom?”

  Zimmerman shook his head. “God, I hope not.”

  Chapter 8

  Springfield, MO

  Sean Kruger held Stephanie’s hand as they walked into the hotel ballroom. The wedding was a small, private affair; a minister, the bride and groom, the best man, maid of honor, Stephanie, Kruger, and an elderly lady playing the organ in the small chapel. The reception was another matter entirely.

  The din of hundreds of conversations met them as they entered. A band was setting up on the far wall, and two open bars were busy serving thirsty guests on opposite sides of the expansive room. Stephanie tugged on his arm. “Who are all of these people?”