Malice kac-19

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  The traitor had been fed the information about the meeting with Ariadne Stupenagel and then left alone to contact Malovo. Ivgeny had felt a twinge of remorse for exposing the reporter, and unexpectedly her boyfriend, to danger, but he knew that the bait had to be too tempting or the rat might smell the trap.

  Even then, there were great risks involved. Malovo might have tried to plant a bomb on the ferry, but he dismissed this, knowing her preferences, and counted on her wanting to kill him herself up close.

  He'd also had to leave his other men behind and bring only the traitor. Where there was one rat, there might have been another who might have warned Malovo of a trap. However, he'd arranged for backup by having a go-between contact Grale with his plan.

  Grale was something of a business associate. The mad monk's network of street people were spread throughout Manhattan, and to a lesser degree the other boroughs, and provided excellent intelligence. In exchange, Grale sought medical supplies, weapons, and food for his followers. The arrangement worked well, though even his own men, as tough as they were, didn't like dealing with Grale and his so-called Mole People. It was an added bonus that he and Grale had discovered that they had mutual enemies.

  The appearance now of Grale at the railing above froze Malovo for an instant. But she was trained to deal with the unexpected and whirled to shoot Karchovski. However, he, too, was a trained fighter and knocked the gun from her hand with a telescoping baton he'd had up his sleeve.

  Stupenagel and Murrow dove to the deck just as Malovo's men were suddenly overwhelmed by robed fighters who'd appeared like wraiths out of the shadows. Terrified, the Muslims didn't put up much of a fight, screaming, "Shayteen! Shayteen!" before being cut down.

  Karchovski moved in to follow up his advantage and narrowly missed being eviscerated by a palm knife that appeared in Malovo's hand. He jumped back in the last instant and flipped open a butterfly knife that he carried.

  "Put down the knife, Nadya," Karchovski ordered as they circled each other. "Your men are dead or captured. It's your decision to live or die."

  Malovo laughed but the sound was bitter and harsh. "What? And submit to your tender mercies? I don't suppose you would be turning me over to the U.S. or Russian government?"

  Karchovski shook his head grimly. "No, that mistake will not happen again. But your death will be as painless as I can make it after I have from you what I want to know."

  Suddenly, a speedboat roared out of the dark and pulled alongside the ferry. A spotlight from the boat picked out Karchovski and Malovo, and then someone opened fire.

  Ivgeny dove to his right just in time to avoid a bullet that rang off the metal hull. He looked up to see Malovo activate a red light on her shoulder harness and then run for the side of the ferry, diving into the black waters.

  Cursing, Karchovski jumped up and ran to the rail. But the speedboat and the red light that bobbed in the wake of the ferry were already far behind. He picked up Malovo's gun and fired until it was empty, then heaved it at the escaping woman in frustration. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed a number. He spoke rapidly in Russian, then flipped it shut.

  With Stupenagel and Murrow trailing him, he ran up to the bridge, where the captain and his crew stood in stunned silence. Two terrorists in black lay dead on the ground, the work of Grale's men.

  "I apologize for all of this," Karchovski told the captain. "But I need you to stop the ferry. I have a boat picking me up on your port side in a moment."

  The captain looked down at the dead men. "All engines stop," he told his crew, then turned back to Karchovski. "I guess we owe you thanks for saving us from these two. But who are you people?"

  "It's not important," Karchovski said. "Please allow me to disembark before you get under way again." With that, he took off running, again with Stupenagel and Murrow on his heels.

  They reached the stern on the port side just as a motorboat was pulling alongside. "I'm sorry," Karchovski said to Stupenagel as Grale and a half dozen of his fighters climbed down into the motorboat. "You are welcome to join us in case you don't want to answer questions from the authorities."

  "I think that's a good idea," Stupenagel said. "And maybe you have time for a few questions?"

  "Some other day, perhaps," Karchovski said. "But we'll drop you back at Battery Park."

  "What about me, boss?" asked Karchovski's bodyguard, who'd remained standing on the stern of the ferry with two of Grale's men.

  Ivgeny turned to the man, his eyes blazing with anger. "What about you, traitor?"

  Before the bodyguard could respond, Grale nodded to his men. One struck the bodyguard on the back of his head with a blackjack, knocking him to the ground.

  "Tie his hands and feet," Ivgeny instructed.

  They did as told, then hauled the man to his feet. "Please, Mr. Karchovski, why are you doing this?" The man started to cry.

  Karchovski, however, was unmoved. "My only regret is that I do not have the time to deal with you properly," he said, and spit in the man's face. "But this is for my friend Gregory, and the others whose blood is on your head."

  "No, I did nothing, I swear to you," the bodyguard blubbered as Karchovski grabbed him by the lapels of his coat.

  "Tell that to the fish," Karchovski replied, and launched the man over the side of the ferry. Weighed down by his clothes and a bulletproof vest, the man kicked violently in an attempt to keep his mouth above water. He was still kicking, his eyes wide with terror, as he slipped beneath the surface and disappeared into the depths.

  The gangster leader turned to Stupenagel and Murrow. "You will forget that you saw that, no?"

  "No," Murrow said, and was nudged in the ribs by Stupenagel. "I mean yes. Never saw a thing. Besides, I believe these are New Jersey waters. No jurisdiction."

  "Honey bunny," Stupenagel said. "Now would be a good time to be quiet."

  "Right."

  Ivgeny Karchovski smiled and shook his head. He would never understand these Americans and their sense of humor. "You have nothing to fear from me," he said. "But so you know, he was the man who betrayed you and all the other people at the Black Sea Cafe."

  "Good riddance to bad trash, then," Stupenagel said.

  "Ditto," Murrow agreed.

  "Then please, climb down," Karchovski said.

  A few minutes later, Murrow and Stupenagel were standing on the dock at Battery Park, watching Karchovski's speedboat roar into the darkness. Murrow sighed. "Well, that was exciting," he said. "I guess you'll have another story on the front page."

  Ariadne tousled his hair. "You are one cool cookie, Gilbert my love. Let's go home…I've a deadline to make."

  17

  While Ivgeny Karchovski was drowning a traitor in New York Harbor, V. T. Newbury's uncle led him down the hall, past the still smiling receptionist and through a pair of frosted glass doors. Now they were standing in a vestibule outside another elevator and a set of stainless steel doors that looked like the entrance to a bank vault.

  His uncle noticed him look at the elevator and said, "VIP. Goes straight to a private area in the parking garage. Sometimes our clients are trying to avoid the intrusions by the overzealous press. They like their privacy, even those who otherwise must lead public lives, and we respect that."

  Dean Newbury turned to the steel doors and paused. "As a matter of fact, I hope you will honor my request to keep the identities of my associates confidential. You may recognize some of them, but all are important men who have to be careful about how their lives are reported, as well as where they go from a security standpoint."

  "You may count on it," V.T. promised. He saw no reason to want to discuss his uncle's cronies, and he had to admit that all the buildup was making him curious.

  "Good lad, knew I could count on the old Newbury discretion," Dean said, smiling, and pressed the palm of his right hand against a pad next to the door. There was a slight click and the door slid open, revealing a large meeting room dominated by a round wooden table aro
und which sat eleven men.

  Most of the men rose when they entered, except for those who appeared too elderly to rise without assistance. They were all white and ranged in age, he guessed, from forties to nineties.

  "Gentlemen, may I introduce you to my nephew, Vinson Talcott Newbury," Dean said. "The son of my late brother and the last male member of this line of Newburys."

  Eleven pairs of eyes focused on V.T., who felt like a crown prince being presented at court for a throne he wanted no part of.

  Dean walked V.T. around the table to introduce him to each man. As they moved from one to the next, V.T. was increasingly impressed by the credentials of this set of "cronies": a U.S. senator from Tennessee, a congressman from Utah, a general at the Pentagon, the assistant director of an unnamed intelligence agency, a commentator from a television network, two federal judges, two bank presidents, a wealthy entrepreneur, and another prominent attorney, who'd been a recent past president of the American Bar Association-and, of course, his uncle.

  V.T. knew several of the men on sight, and a couple more by reputation. But it was safe to assume, as his uncle had pointed out, that this was a council of equals. He thought he recognized several of the older men from his grandfather's and Quilliam's funerals.

  And now gathered here to meet little ol' me, V.T. thought. I don't know whether to be flattered or to try to make a run for it. Looking down at the table, he noted the symbol on Quilliam's ring-the tre cassyn-was also embossed in gold in the wooden top. He glanced around and noticed that all of the others were, indeed, wearing rings like the one he'd just been given. The thought suddenly made the ring seem very heavy and he longed to take it off, but didn't out of deference to his uncle.

  The members took their seats and V.T.'s uncle continued with the introduction. "Gentlemen, I've taken the liberty of explaining that we are members of a sort of ancient fraternity with ties back to Old Europe," he said. "But I was just thinking that a more apt description might be a 'think tank' that meets from time to time to discuss, and perhaps take some action to deal with, issues that confront this country. You will never hear about us in the news, Vinson, but you might be surprised at what we have accomplished behind the scenes for a great many years. But we'll leave the discussion of history for another day. Am I right, gentlemen?"

  The gentlemen nodded their assents, and he continued. "As you all know, I'm trying to persuade my nephew to return to the family fold and possibly take up the mantle of his family's law firm. I would like nothing better than knowing that when I pass from this world, the firm of Newbury, White amp; Newbury will be left in the good hands of someone who understands the great responsibility of this charge."

  "Hear, hear," the others replied, though V.T. thought the "vote" was less than fully enthusiastic.

  "To that end, I wanted him to meet you, my most trusted associates and advisors, and perhaps in the company of such an august group, he may also come to understand that there is much he could accomplish at the helm of this law firm and as part of this 'fraternity.'"

  Another round of "Hear, hear"s ended the introduction, and the rest of the meeting was spent chatting while dinner was served. While this was less formal, with one-on-one and small-group conversations, V.T. got the impression that it was actually the more important phase of the "examination."

  Most of the questions seemed aimed at finding out where he stood on the political spectrum. He considered himself somewhat conservative, though with definite liberal tendencies when it came to social issues.

  He answered honestly, including what he thought of the Patriot Act, which was that in times of war, a country's government sometimes needed extraordinary powers. "Especially against such a difficult enemy as global terrorism," he said. "However, it's a balancing act between giving government enough tools to protect us from enemies without, and protecting us from the government overstep-ping its bounds in regard to intrusions into private lives."

  After dinner, his uncle escorted him back out of the room and to the elevators that would take him to the lobby. "Well done," Dean said, shaking V.T.'s hand. "I think that went rather well for a start. Please remember what we agreed regarding our little meeting. Mum's the word."

  "I promise," V.T. replied. "Not a peep. So the others are staying?"

  Dean looked back toward the stainless steel doors. "Yes, we have a number of business items and housekeeping matters to attend to," he said. "A regular Rotary club meeting with minutes and reports. It's boring stuff and, unfortunately, likely to take up the rest of the night. Due to the distances involved, and busy schedules, we don't get the opportunity to meet face-to-face very often and have to seize the opportunity when it presents itself."

  Placing a hand on V.T.'s arm, he looked his nephew in the eye. "This is an important trust you've been offered. Our aspirations for you go beyond this law firm, such as eventually a seat on the U.S. Supreme Court. And why not, there are kingmakers in this room who might be able to help."

  V.T.'s mouth fell open. "You're telling me that this 'fraternity' or 'think tank' can arrange to have me appointed to the highest court in the country? I thought that was the prerogative of the president and confirmed by Congress?"

  Dean Newbury spread his hands as if to say stranger things have happened. "I wouldn't say 'arrange,' or even guarantee that such a thing could be done. Of course, you would have to be qualified, perhaps by starting with an appointment to a federal bench for a bit of seasoning. But we do have a certain amount of influence in the political arena, as well as with the American Bar Association, which as you may know has for the past fifty years issued its evaluations of the credentials of nominees to the federal bench and particularly the Supreme Court."

  "Yes, I know the ABA issues a report to Congress on whether they believe a candidate is 'well qualified,' 'qualified,' or 'not qualified.' But they have no official standing in the selection process," V.T. pointed out.

  "Perhaps not, but a 'well qualified' usually leads to confirmation," his uncle replied. "Presidents and the Congress can't be expected to know the qualifications of every nominee. As in any other business, they rely on advisors, including the ABA."

  V.T.'s mind was reeling. He'd promised his uncle that he would keep an open mind, but that was when he thought the job offer was going to be a senior partnership and eventual control of the family firm. He wasn't naive enough to think that such things as nominations to the U.S. Supreme Court were free of political maneuvering. Anybody who read a newspaper knew how rancorous and partisan the proceedings could be once the nominee got to the congressional hearings. But something that a few powerful men could arrange?

  V.T. thought that the group was a little carried away with its self-importance and influence. Then again, he thought, I'm sure the demagogues of the Christian right sit around convincing themselves that they have more influence than they do. Just like the left-wing appeasers in the Democratic Party think the public will follow them like lemmings just because they rail nonstop against everything the incumbent Republicans try to do, particularly as it relates to counterterrorism. Which is, of course, why they keep getting disappointed in November.

  "Well," he said, flustered. He cleared his throat to give himself a little more time to find the right words without insulting his uncle. "This is certainly unexpected, and I don't really even know how to respond without a great deal more thought. But I do appreciate the honor that you consider me worth the thought."

  "Well, my boy, I have to admit there's a little ego involved," the old man said. "There's been a Newbury on that council for nearly two hundred years. We don't want to mess up that run now, do we?"

  The elevator opened and V.T. stepped in. He turned around and nodded. "I'd hate to be the one to do that. I'll give it a fair hearing."

  When the doors closed, Dean Newbury stood for a moment pondering his next move. He turned and reentered the meeting room and immediately addressed the others. "So, gentlemen, your thoughts?"

  "Dangerous, this fire you're pl
aying with," the television commentator said. "His father betrayed you…us…and your nephew works for the enemy, the Jew Karp."

  "Well, I believe the old, overused saw is 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' But I am not sure that my nephew cannot be turned to a friend," Dean Newbury replied. "You better than most of us understand how easily opinions can be swayed with the right choice of words and enticement. And besides, haven't we always held that blood is thicker than water?"

  "Blood of firstborn sons," the senator pointed out. "He was not brought up in the brotherhood."

  Dean Newbury understood the argument. He'd heard it before. The seats around the table had been passed from firstborn son to firstborn son for more than two hundred years. Ever since their ancestors had first arrived, fleeing the reach of the British Navy. But the line of succession had not always been straight. Some of their predecessors had been childless or had not produced male heirs. Or the firstborn son had died, like Quilliam, and there'd even been several who rejected the cause, like Quilliam, and had to be watched carefully for any sign of disloyalty.

  Therefore, sometimes the seats had been filled in other ways. Second sons had been indoctrinated and accepted into the brotherhood to replace their fathers, or, as would be V.T.'s case, a first son of a second son. But they usually started the process of "education" much younger than V.T., when the mind was easier to mold.

  However, Dean Newbury had been forced into the present situation by several betrayals. The first was his own body, which had failed to produce any more male heirs, only two daughters, who themselves had only produced daughters. The second had been Quilliam, who'd recoiled from his rightful place and joined the marines.