by Matt Hilton
A five-minute stroll found him a good distance along the wall. He found an empty oil drum partly concealed in the long grass on the untended no man's land between the wall and the highway. He dragged it upright, then rolled it end over end so that the accumulated sand and vegetation spilled out. Then he set the drum upright against the wall. Just a warden looking after the countryside. He waited for a break in the traffic. When it came, he hopped up on to the drum, then reached upwards and got a grip on the top of the wall. He was over it in seconds.
Striking out across the grounds, he headed for Bradley Jorgenson's house. He strolled like he was at home there and he went unchallenged.
He touched the book in his pocket.
Keen to rebalance the total.
34
Pushing on down the coast road, I quickly discovered that the next layover was full to capacity with TV and radio crews. Space was at such a premium that a State Park warden had been drafted in to keep the traffic in order. Any vehicles that did not belong to the media were waved on by the curt man in the stupid hat.
Driving south, I looked for somewhere to park in solitude.
There were plenty of wide, sandy parking bays along the way, but each one had an abundance of tourists' vehicles already encamped on the parking lots, their occupants disgorged across the saw-grass above the beach, or walking on the sands themselves. A regatta of boats made its way through the Inter-Coastal Waterway and I understood why there was so much activity. The crowds had turned out to watch some sort of big boat race.
I finally found a spot to myself. I drove off the road and on to the grass itself. The Audi was equipped with a four-wheel-drive function, so I wasn't concerned about bogging down in the soft ground.
I tried Bradley's office number again but the phone was answered by the same brisk-voiced woman.
'Who is this?' she demanded when I kept my silence.
I hung up. It was time to call in a few favours.
Dialling a number that was committed to my memory, I waited while the call was shunted through various relays. It was some time before the call was picked up and I was asked to punch in a numeric sequence on my phone. I was asked to confirm the number, which I did, then was transferred to another telephone at the CIA headquarters, up the coast in Virginia.
Already a member of the British Special Forces, I had been drafted into a specialist counterterrorism team that pulled on the finest soldiers from across all the member countries of the United Nations. Rink belonged to the same unit. We were ultimately governed by our commanders at a base codenamed 'Arrowsake' after one of the locations where William Melville, head of the original British Secret Service Bureau, allegedly trained his new recruits in the fight against Nazi spies. However, because we were formed from the consolidation of a number of allies, we had facilitators in each country. My handler in the US was Walter Hayes Conrad IV, a Sub-Division Controller of the CIA.
When the face of modern terrorism changed post 9/11, so did the methods of fighting the war. Public relations campaigns and scrutinising bank accounts became more important than assaults on terrorist enclaves. In some eyes my unit were dinosaurs and belonged buried in history. Our fate was sealed, as the original dinosaurs' had been. I retired shortly before my unit was disbanded. Our handlers were absorbed back into their own security communities. Most of them still held great influence; as did Walter.
'I need a favour, Walter.'
'Why do you only ever call when you want something, Hunter?'
'Because I know you'll always come through.'
'Flattery, as you should know, will get you nowhere.'
'Better flattery than blackmail, huh?'
Walter owed me big time. For one, I had been instrumental in stopping the rogue Secret Service agent, Martin Maxwell, who had managed to stay one step ahead of those hunting him. More than that though, I'd kept the name of Tubal Cain — the Harvestman — secret, avoiding a massive embarrassment to both Walter and the US Government. Tubal Cain had gone to his grave as Robert Swan, and I'd made no one any the wiser.
'So what is it you want?'
'Cooperation from the local feds,' I told him.
My location must have been thrown up on some sort of Global Positioning Satellite screen on his computer monitor.
'Martin County, Florida,' he confirmed to himself. 'What are you doing there?'
'Up until now? Not a whole lot of good,' I said.
'Tell me.'
I gave him the brief version.
'I heard about the explosion on Baker Island. Homeland Security flagged it up. Thought at first that it was some kind of terrorist attack on the rich and deserving. When it came to light it was a good ol' gas explosion it was thrown back to Miami PD. Then bodies started turning up and the FBI jumped on board.' Walter ruminated a moment. 'Now you're saying that a contract killer's involved and it's all to do with the Jorgenson pharmaceutical contracts with our military?'
'That's as much as we've gathered,' I agreed.
'And you're up to your neck in it as usual.'
'You know me, Walt. Never can keep my nose out of other people's business.'
'Not when there's a damsel in distress, eh?'
'Doesn't matter who is in distress,' I corrected.
'You want me to put men on it?' Walter asked. 'Catch this killer before he gets at your mark again?'
'Suit yourself; I'm not interested in the killer. It isn't personal this time. All I want is a green light to speak with Bradley Jorgenson. The family estate is shut down as tight as a duck's ass. Can't think of a way to get in there without having to put some good people to sleep. I don't want to do that.'
'No, not a good idea, Hunter.' Walter tapped his fingers. Thinking deeply. 'Can I ask you why you need to speak to the Jorgenson kid?'
'I want to get him out of there.'
'Why?'
'Because I promised his girlfriend that I would. He's not safe.'
'And you think you can protect him better than the police and FBI can?'
'Walt?'
'Yeah, I know. It was a stupid question.' He was tapping again, this time on a keyboard, and I guessed he was already on to someone in law enforcement. While he did that I told him what we'd patched together concerning Gabriel Wellborn and his network of contract killers named after the mythological fallen angels. I told him about Dantalion. Walter asked, 'But you don't know his true identity yet?'
'No. Only that he's decent at his job. I don't think he's military or police. He's, I don't know… different.'
'Self-taught?'
'Or privately taught. This guy looks weird. Very pale-skinned, white-haired, has some sort of condition with his skin?'
'Albino?'
'Perhaps, but I don't think so. Something else. But you might want to check historical medical records; it might throw up his identity.' I thought about the first time I'd seen Dantalion on Baker Island. 'He's also very good with disguises, Walter. Maybe he has a background in theatre or the movie industry.'
'I'll pass all that on to the FBI,' Walter said. 'OK, all done. Go to the front gate; ask to speak with SAC Kaufman. He'll give you what you need.'
'Thanks, Walter.'
'Say nothing of it,' he said. To some that would be a throwaway remark. But I knew exactly what he meant. It was a reminder, and literal in its meaning. Say nothing of it. The Harvestman.
Pressing the end button, I pushed the phone in my jacket pocket. No sooner than I had done that than it vibrated and I pulled it out again. A text message from Harvey. home and dry
Good, they'd made it back to the safe house. Time for me to get on with delivering Bradley there.
35
There were obvious disadvantages to the disguise Dantalion had assumed on this occasion. For example, what was a State Park Warden's interest in the case? If anyone had thought to ask, or to scrutinise his uniform a little further, they'd have easily seen through the charade. He had no jurisdiction on the private estate, and would not be required to attend
on official business or otherwise. On the other hand, his uniform was official, and therefore he was able to move among all the other officials without attracting undue questions. In fact, there were other advantages to his disguise. If, say, he had been wearing the uniform of a cop or medic, then maybe he would not have remained invisible for long. There were too many senior officers milling around throwing orders back and forth, demanding tasks from their people. But there were no other wardens in attendance. No one to question just who the hell he was, or what he was doing or to send him off on some errand that would divert him from his task.
By keeping his eyes averted and walking like he had somewhere to be, he was able to go directly past officers from the local Sheriff's Department and towards Bradley Jorgenson's house. Commandos from the FBI Hostage Rescue Team had previously secured the area. With no viable threat evident, they had stood down. Dantalion saw a group of them standing around with their helmets off and their assault rifles slung from their shoulders. Talking and enjoying the sunshine. A couple of them smoked cigarettes round the side of the building, out of sight of their superiors. Most of the activity was carried out by ambulance crews and people from the Martin County Medical Examiner's Office. Apparently the thirteen-hours-old crime scene had been thoroughly picked through by the CSI technicians and had now been handed over to the men with the body bags.
Dantalion knew he'd be pushing his luck if he went inside the building, but his anonymity would be protected while in the grounds. As yet he wasn't even sure that Bradley had returned to the house. In fact, would it not be a better idea if Bradley went to another of the family houses where there hadn't been blood and mayhem? To one of the other family members who hadn't been in on the plot to have Bradley and Marianne murdered, for instance? That ruled out the houses of both Simon and Jack, but there were plenty of others to choose from. Was there a sympathetic aunt or uncle? Or would the officers in charge of the investigation have picked a house at random, commandeered it while they questioned Bradley and any other survivors about what had happened here?
He decided not to linger at either crime scene too long. The proliferation of law enforcement officers around both Bradley's and Petre Jorgenson's houses meant that the odds of blowing his cover were great. Though he'd remained invisible up until now, all it took was one eagle-eyed cop to challenge him, ask for identification, and that would be it. Contrary to all their faults as a collective beast, singly the officers were still trained professionals, and not to be underestimated.
Happy that there was no sign of the silver Lincoln sedan that Bradley and Seagram had made off in last night, he walked away. He headed northwards, towards the other half-dozen houses that lay strung out along the coast in that direction.
The next house belonged to Valentin's oldest sister, Hetti. Still a Jorgenson by birth, she now went by her deceased husband's name of Gorman. The family business meant little to her and she had made her own fortune in real estate. From the documentation supplied by Petre Jorgenson when he still remained Dantalion's client, he knew that Hetti kept herself aloof from the squabble between Valentin and her nephews. Aloof and unsympathetic; he doubted that Bradley would seek her out for comfort or support. Nevertheless he checked around her property for signs of the sedan, but it wasn't parked there either. He continued.
Christened Jan Jorgenson, but taking the Americanised form of John for the purpose of the business, Bradley's youngest cousin had always been referred to by the less formal name of Jack. His family home was next in line. He had no wife or children, and the house was somewhat excessive for the single man.
Simon, his brother, five years older at twenty-eight, did have a wife and a baby girl. However, the wife had taken the baby girl along with an out-of-court settlement of twenty million dollars when they'd divorced one year earlier. She'd moved with the child to her own place on Fisher's Island off Miami Beach. Like Jack, Simon lived alone, but there was a transient population of women coming and going at all times, something that had begun before the acrimonious divorce and had led to the breakdown of their marriage.
Dantalion bypassed both the brothers' houses.
He stuck to the coastline. The going was a little more difficult than if he'd walked along the road, but it was more in keeping with his disguise.
A full half-mile from Bradley's house, he found what he'd been looking for. Not the silver Lincoln, but a helicopter on the broad lawn of the next house. The helicopter was a Bell Jet Ranger, and it was decorated with the livery of the FBI. The only reason that Dantalion could think of for the presence of the helicopter was that it had some pretty important passengers. The Special Agent in Charge from the local FBI office. He would be overall commander of the investigation, and there was only one reason why he'd be at this location. Bradley had come here for tea and sympathy from his elderly great-aunt, Eunice.
From where he was standing, Dantalion could see the pilot on board the helicopter. He was passing time by going through a series of checks, flicking buttons and reading dials. Dantalion quickly walked towards the house, striding purposefully. The pilot glanced his way, but didn't appear concerned and continued with his pre-flight checks. Dantalion kept going, rounding the house and approaching the walled yard at the back.
This house was not as impressive as those the cousins lived in, but was probably still worth a couple of million dollars. A two-storey wooden dwelling with porch and railings and a steepled roof and attic windows, it reminded Dantalion a little of a house in a movie he'd enjoyed: The Amityville Horror. One of the oldest houses on the island, it looked in need of renovation — not exactly dilapidated, but a lick of paint wouldn't go amiss. The elderly woman who lived here was in fact one of the first generation of Jorgensons to arrive here back in the 1950s. The house would have been grand in its day, but now it was as dated as the chintz curtains in the windows. It looked like the old woman was just sitting out her time. When she passed, the house would likely go to one of the younger generation, doubtless to be torn down and rebuilt.
He paused at the corner, studying the cars parked at the rear of the house. There was an older model Chrysler station wagon. Plus, there it was: the silver Lincoln sedan. He took a deep breath. Felt for the Taurus.38. Touched his book. Then quickly took a step backwards as he heard the rear door opening. The sound was followed by muted conversation. He couldn't quite make out what was said, but then he detected the crunch of tyres as a vehicle approached. Angling himself against the corner of the wall, he watched a car from the Martin County Sheriff's Department draw to a halt and a silver-haired man in a grey suit get in. The vehicle then did a quick U-turn and headed back along the road. What was that about? He waited until the car was shielded from sight by the swell in the land.
Yesterday's actions had been governed by fury. He'd acted recklessly and without thought of the repercussions. His thirst for vengeance had led him to slay his supporters. He'd left himself without back-up, the proverbial lone wolf. But, hadn't he always preferred it that way?
Gabe Wellborn had been useful, but he had also been a liability. His method of concealing his network of hired mercenaries had never been foolproof. Sooner or later the FBI would chance upon his website, put two and two together and draw correlations between the fantasised murders and those they reflected in the real world. Dantalion had cautioned him. He did not want the names of his brethren used by the other killers for hire on Gabe's books. It cheapened his own identity when other men — nothing but thugs for hire in his estimation — plucked names from the Goetic pantheon with no thought for the true owners of those names. Dantalion had sought out each of those men in turn. He'd killed them all. He had planned to kill Gabe too. But not last night. That had been a reaction to the situation he'd found himself in.
This time things would be different.
He would be cool and rational. He wouldn't go in with all guns blazing: he would use subtlety and guile to take Bradley Jorgenson. Neither would he kill him instantly. He would give him a choice. Tel
l me where Marianne is and I won't cut off your hands. Tell me where Joe Hunter is and I won't cut off your feet. Ask kindly and maybe I won't chop off your balls and feed them to you.
Good plan, nothing psychopathic about it.
He scouted the building, looking for a sign that Bradley was inside. And found him almost immediately. He was sitting in the kitchen, his forearms resting on a table top. A man who Dantalion did not recognise sat opposite him. A digital voice recorder lay on the table between them. By the cut of the man's suit, his well-groomed hair, and the give-away clip-on badge on his breast pocket, Dantalion saw that he was FBI. He appeared to be questioning Bradley — the digital recorder there to record the interview.
There were only two others in the room: one of them the bodyguard named Seagram, the one who had offered to help him get to Bradley. That, of course, had been before Dantalion had slaughtered Petre, who had obviously been bribing Seagram to switch allegiance. He doubted that Seagram would be so keen with his sponsor out of the picture. Now that Bradley had resumed the role of his main employer, it was in Seagram's best interest to keep him alive. The last person was a very elderly lady. She was sitting in a wooden chair and, despite the heat of the Floridian sun, she was dressed in thick wool and tweed and had a blanket over her knees. She looked like she hadn't a clue what was going on, and sat smiling and nodding as Bradley answered the FBI agent's questions.
There did not appear to be anyone else around. No bodyguards, no police, only the one agent and the helicopter pilot to give assistance to Bradley and Seagram.
This was about the best opportunity for taking Bradley that he was going to get.
He quickly walked away from the house, not wanting to leave himself open to an attack from behind. As he approached the helicopter he heard the engine whine as the pilot continued his pre-flight preparations. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and carefully folded it round a small cylinder.
