Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  What did you do?

  His chest tightened as he realized he had become one of them. Complicit in the deaths of over one thousand innocent souls, all for the sake of following orders.

  He spotted something rolled up in haste under a blanket. He reached over and grabbed it, one of the men reaching to stop him. Wainwright glared and the man backed off. Unrolling it, he immediately went red at the sight of what was most likely a priceless painting, hastily cut from its frame, the edges jagged and torn.

  “What the hell is this?”

  Nobody said anything.

  His eyes bore into the man who had tried to stop him.

  “Answer me, that’s an order.”

  The man looked at him for a moment as if he were debating whether or not this was an order he cared to follow. Finally, he shrugged. “A souvenir.”

  Wainwright rolled up the painting, sucking in rapid, angry breaths through his nose before launching into a tirade. “I may have to put up with a lot of things, but theft isn’t one of them. You may not care that we could have saved those civilians, but I can assure you the men on this ship do!” His lip curled into a sneer then he jabbed the thief with the painting. “Tell your commander I want to see him immediately.”

  The man nodded but didn’t move.

  Wainwright stepped out of the room and stormed back to his cabin, tossing the painting on the desk before dropping into his chair.

  He yanked at his hair as he tried to calm himself, his rage threatening to consume him as he stared at the painting.

  Was that all this was? An opportunity to steal?

  He couldn’t believe that. He refused to believe that. There was no way the United States Navy could be involved in a robbery. At least not a robbery like this. He could see them stealing something from a foreign government, absolutely, but a painting?

  Never.

  Not his navy.

  But it was his navy that had ordered him to cede command to Commander Whitman, and it was he that had ordered them to stand by and watch as over one thousand died.

  There was a knock on his door.

  “Enter.”

  Commander Whitman stepped inside. “I understand you were looking for me, Captain.”

  Wainwright nodded. “Close the hatch.”

  Whitman complied then noticed the painting on the desk. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

  Wainwright glanced at the painting, his blood still boiling. “Explain.”

  “One of my men took it upon himself to take a souvenir. I had ordered it destroyed.”

  Wainwright’s hand instinctively moved toward the painting as if to protect it. “This is a piece of history, Commander. Civilized men do not destroy art.” His eyes narrowed. “Mr. Whitman. Are you even navy?”

  Whitman smiled slightly. “I’m sorry, Captain, but that’s classified.”

  Wainwright felt a hint of relief. “I didn’t think so. No navy man would allow people to die at sea. It’s just not done. The next time it could be you floating in the water, hoping someone comes along to save you. If it were an option, no one would do it. There’s a code, Commander, and you have no concept of that.” Wainwright rose. “I expect you and your men off my ship as soon as we are docked.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Whitman opened the hatch then turned back toward Wainwright, nodding at the painting. “I suggest you destroy that immediately, Captain.”

  “As I said, it’s a piece of history.”

  “It’s supposed to be on the bottom of the ocean.”

  “Fortunately it was saved.”

  Whitman shook his head, jabbing a finger at the painting. “That, Captain, is evidence we were there. It must be destroyed.”

  Wainwright sucked in a deep breath, his chest expanding as he glared at the man. “I will not destroy it.”

  “Then, Captain, you’ll have to take it to your grave, as no one can ever be allowed to see it.”

  Congressman Bill Mahoney’s Office

  Monroe Street, Rockville

  Present Day

  Congressman Bill Mahoney rested the back of his head against the elevator wall and closed his eyes, the vibrations of the car almost soothing. It had been a long, tough day and it would take a lot more than the thirty-second ride to help him unwind.

  Three fingers tonight.

  The elevator chimed and the doors opened a moment later, the smell of the underground parking lot filling his nostrils. He sighed, pushing himself off the back of the elevator and stepping onto the concrete, his footsteps echoing as he made his way to his car.

  A door opened to his right, then another.

  He was too tired to care.

  An engine roared to life as he reached for his fob, pressing the button.

  His Ford Taurus’ lights winked at him from down the nearly empty row of parking spaces.

  “Congressman Mahoney?”

  He turned toward the woman’s voice behind him, his eyes barely open. “Yes?”

  A gun was drawn, pointed directly at his chest. “Come with us, please.”

  A surge of adrenaline pulsed through his veins as he was jolted awake. “Wh-what’s all this?”

  Two men flanked him, grabbing him by the arms as the vehicle that had just started pulled out of its parking spot, a black SUV with heavily tinted windows and government plates coming up beside them.

  “Who are you people?” he demanded, beginning to struggle against the silent men as he was half pushed half carried toward the rear door. Someone inside pushed it open and reached out, yanking him inside, one of the men following him in, the door slamming shut as the woman climbed into the passenger seat. The driver suddenly accelerated, the tires chirping on the concrete, the surge pressing him into his seat.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  He tried to make his voice as confident as possible, yet even he could hear the tremor in his voice.

  “No talking,” said the woman as she turned toward him holding a hood. “Put this on.” Mahoney hesitated. “Now.”

  He took the hood and pulled it over his head, the feeling instantly claustrophobic. He could feel the moisture from his rapid breaths blow back against his face, a line of sweat immediately forming on his upper lip, the temperature increasing noticeably as the vehicle came to a stop, the front window lowering, the familiar beep from the security pad indicating they had a pass for the garage.

  Government plates?

  The SUV tilted up as they exited and they were soon on the city streets. He tried to keep track of where they were, the perceived speed, the stops and turns giving him a pretty good idea where they were for the first few minutes, but soon they had made a turn into an area of town he had no familiarity with, leaving him hopelessly lost.

  They eventually slowed, the vehicle tipping forward as they entered what he assumed was another parking garage. The vehicle made at least half a dozen hard left turns as they descended several levels before finally coming to a stop, all four doors in the vehicle opening almost at once.

  Someone grabbed his arm, pulling him semi-gently toward the door. He slid across the seat and stepped down to the ground before being led a short distance then placed in a chair, his hands yanked behind his back and cuffed.

  “Why were you asking questions about Captain Wainwright?”

  He almost jumped at the sound of the woman’s voice, her accent distinctive, European. German? He had the sense by the way she deliberately pronounced each word that she had struggled for years to rid herself of what she felt was a childhood curse.

  He personally loved the sound of European women.

  But not today.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  That was stupid. They obviously know!

  “Congressman, you’ll save us all a lot of time if you simply cooperate. I will ask you one final time. Why were you asking questions about Captain Wainwright?”

  He wasn’t sure where the bravado was coming from, but he
couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “Why do you want to know? He’s been dead for over fifty years.”

  “What is of our concern is none of yours.”

  “Our? Who are you people?”

  “Again, none of your concern. I will ask you one last time, politely. Then my associates will assist me. Why were you—”

  “None of your goddamned business. I’m a United States Congressman, and I demand to be released. If you think—”

  Something hit him with incredible force in the face, his nose immediately breaking, the taste of blood filling his mouth as he gasped, the surprise making the pain all the more worse. His eyes watered and his ears rang, the pain overwhelming his senses.

  He heard the thud before he felt it, something hitting him across his entire stomach, the hood over his head preventing any warning. The blow forced all the air out of him and he sucked in a painful breath almost immediately as he doubled over, his cuffed hands tugging against the chair back.

  Someone grabbed the back of his suit jacket and yanked him upright just before another blow slammed into his stomach, the pain intense, crippling, the blow slightly off target, contact with a rib definitely made.

  He was sure he heard it crack.

  “P-please, no more!” The words were gasped out, his breaths rapid and shallow, the pain too great to do any more. He had read about torture in the past and had dismissed those who had broken as weak-willed cowards.

  But he had never experienced pain before, not like this. Yet it wasn’t just the pain, it was the fear of not knowing when the next blow would come, what part of his body would be hit next.

  The grip on his jacket broke and he sagged over as far as his cuffed hands would allow him, sobs racking his body, the shame of breaking so fast feeding on itself, the realization he wasn’t the man he thought he was almost overwhelmingly emasculating.

  He felt pathetic.

  “I will ask you one last time, Congressman. Why were you asking questions about Captain Wainwright?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut as blood poured from his nose, collecting at the tip then dripping onto the inside of the hood. His heart slammed in his chest as a pit formed in his stomach as he realized he was about to do the unthinkable. He was about to open his mouth when an image of his wife and children flashed before his eyes. What would they think of him if he threw Steve Wainwright under the bus? What kind of example would he be setting for his son?

  No, Steve Wainwright wasn’t going to be thrown under the bus by him.

  “I received a letter in the mail—anonymous—that said I should look into Captain Wainwright’s involvement with the Titanic. I-I thought it was just some sort of conspiracy nut, but I had a friend who would be able to look into it quickly enough so I gave him a call.”

  “Who was that?”

  His lip trembled. They had found him, and if they had found him, then they had definitely found Sparks.

  It was a test.

  “Jerry Sparks. I asked him to search the records and a security alert appeared on his screen then we were cut off.”

  “And where is this letter now?”

  His mind raced, the problem with an impromptu lie the fact you never had the chance to rehearse the challenges. “I, uh, shredded it. I thought that it was best to not be involved once Jerry said there was some sort of security warning.”

  The woman’s footsteps neared then stopped directly in front of him.

  “I think you’re lying to me, Congressman.”

  He flinched, her voice so close she must have been leaning over and speaking into his ear. “I-I’m not.”

  “We know it was a constituent of yours that asked you to conduct the search.”

  Oh God!

  “We know they are related to Captain Wainwright.”

  How could they know?

  “You have one last chance to name this person. Should you lie to me again, not only will you die, but your family will as well. And so will everyone named Wainwright that lives in your constituency.”

  “Y-you’re insane!”

  “No, Congressman, I’m extremely motivated.” A hand gripped his shoulder. “You have five seconds before my colleagues continue their work.”

  He felt her push off his shoulder, the footsteps receding several paces, the sound of something dragging on the ground nearby suggesting to him a two-by-four, or something similar, being readied again. He couldn’t hear her countdown, and wasn’t even certain she was giving one, but his own thundered in his head, and as he reached the end, every muscle in his body went slack, a hot stream of urine soaking his pants.

  “Steve Wainwright.”

  Harlem, New York City

  April 26, 1912

  Brett Jones took Margo’s hand, squeezing it in thanks as she turned to get a glass of milk from the counter. Jones winked at her, she smiling, then he tucked into his breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, life good in the Jones’ household since his return from the Titanic job. He had quickly begun to break down the large bills in various parts of the city, the gems sold off one at a time on Maiden Lane to jewelers who asked no questions as long as the stones weren’t set. Their nest egg was rapidly growing.

  But he went through life every day looking over his shoulder.

  And it was slowly driving him crazy.

  If he had at least heard something from his employer, The Assembly, as Astor had called them, he’d feel better. Yet there had been nothing. Not a single word. No new jobs, nothing.

  “Whitman” must have told them about the painting.

  If he was blacklisted, then so be it. He wanted out anyway. And if they wanted him dead, he was certain he would be by now.

  We have to disappear.

  There was no choice. The big question was whether or not Margo would agree to leave with him. He just couldn’t see it happening. She had a large family, all in the area, and she was very close with them. To ask her to leave all that, to never see them again, was something he just couldn’t do.

  And if The Assembly might one day come after him, they might come after her too.

  And he couldn’t let that happen.

  He loved her too much.

  Which meant he had to leave her, let her get on with her life with someone else, someone who wasn’t a target.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “I’ll get it,” said Margo, but Jones raised a hand to stop her.

  “You sit and eat, hon, before it gets cold.”

  “But yours will get just as cold.”

  Jones grinned, motioning at his plate. “Your food’s too good, hon, I’m done.”

  Margo looked at the nearly empty plate and shook her head. “Did you even chew?”

  “Like a duck, babe, like a duck.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin, tossing it on the table as the knock repeated. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” He opened the door and nearly shit his pants.

  “Commander Whitman.”

  “Come with me.”

  “I’m in the middle of breakfast with my girl.”

  “Now.”

  He frowned but realized there was no choice, two other men down the hallway, clearly backup. “Fine.” He stepped back inside and grabbed his jacket and hat. “Hon, I’m stepping out for a few minutes. Business.”

  “Okay, dear.” He could hear the chair scrape as she rose, her footsteps approaching. He quickly stepped into the hall, closing the door, not wanting her to see these men, nor they her.

  He followed Whitman in silence, down the several flights of stairs and into a car waiting on the street. The two men stayed outside.

  “I’ve been sent to deliver a message.”

  Jones could feel his stomach fill with butterflies.

  Did it include bullets?

  He said nothing.

  “They know what you did.”

  “What? The painting? I said I was sorry. That Captain took it before I could burn it.”

  Whitman smiled slightly. “This has nothing to do w
ith the painting, or the cash and jewels you’ve been spreading around town.”

  Jones felt a lump form in his throat.

  They know.

  “A body was recovered and identified yesterday.”

  Jones said nothing.

  “Retired Lieutenant Colonel John Jacob Astor the Fourth.”

  Sweat began to bead on his forehead.

  “Imagine our employer’s surprise when it was found he drowned with no gunshot wounds on his body.”

  A trickle of icy cold sweat raced down his back, his shirt slowly dampening.

  He eyed the door.

  “Care to explain?”

  His mouth was dry and he had to peel his tongue off the roof. “I must have shot the wrong man.”

  Whitman smiled. “I’d believe that if you hadn’t brought me the envelope with the papers we were looking for.”

  Shit!

  “Here’s what I think happened. I think you had an attack of consciousness, brought on by that little philly you’ve got upstairs.”

  Jones’ fear turned to anger. “Don’t you dare touch her.”

  Whitman smiled triumphantly. “So that is it.” He waved his hand. “No matter, our quarrel isn’t with some waitress from the wrong side of the tracks. It’s with you.”

  “Do anything you want to me, just leave her out of it.”

  Whitman’s smile spread. “Our employer, or should I say, my employer, wants nothing to happen to you. You have proven yourself unreliable, therefore you will no longer be considered for future assignments.”

  Jones felt relief sweep over him.

  “I see that was what you wanted, regardless.”

  Jones nodded.

  “Good. You will be allowed to keep your money and jewels and you are of course sworn to secrecy. You will be monitored from time to time, and should any breach be discovered, you and your loved ones will be eliminated. You yourself have carried out several of these executions over the years, so you know my employer is sincere.”

  Jones went cold again, nodding as the images of the dead flashed before his eyes.