by Jack Bowie
Skansen was a short drive to the east on the island of Djurgarden. True to form, as the limo approached the site, gates were thrown open, they bypassed the standard entrance and pulled into a private parking area next to the park. Upon seeing the limo, the waiting tourists smiled and nodded pleasantly. Braxton couldn’t help but think of the reaction such behavior would have caused in Washington.
When they exited the vehicle, they were met by an older woman dressed in traditional Scandinavian costume. She introduced herself as their guide for the tour. She began by explaining that Skansen was an open-air museum, a reconstruction of a nineteenth-century Scandinavian village complete with craftsmen demonstrating skills in tanning, baking, glass-blowing and carpentry.
They walked to an open area with six wooden cabins arrayed in an arc around the perimeter. “This represents a typical Swedish village of the late eighteen-hundreds,” the guide said. “We have outfitted each cabin to demonstrate one aspect of Swedish life.”
The area seemed empty. Apparently, other tourists had been cleared for the convenience of the Nobel celebrities. They entered the first cabin, which was at best two small rooms, and saw a woman, also dressed in period clothing, weaving cloth. The guide made an introduction and the weaver then described the process that had been performed to create cloth. From the gathering of wool, to the spinning of thread, to the weaving of fabric and dyeing of the cloth.
The group wandered around the room, at least as much as was possible in the small space, viewing the different artifacts.
At one point, Braxton found himself standing next to Kerry McAllister.
“Is everything all right, Kerry?” he asked. “You seem to be checking your phone a lot.”
The younger McAllister flashed one of her favorite scowls, then her face softened. “I’m sorry, Adam. I guess you may as well know. Mr. Slattery got me access to a blood sample last week. I’m sure he has told you which one. We’re running the facial reconstruction now. I guess I’m a little preoccupied.”
So that was it. She was finally going to see the face of the person who killed her mother. No wonder she had been so distracted.
“When will you get the results?” he asked.
“It could be any time now. I don’t know how I’ll react.”
“I understand, Kerry. I really hope you’ll find who … the person. But it has been a long time. He, or she, may not even still be alive.”
McAllister’s face grew sad. “I know. But I’ve spent my life getting to this moment. It can’t be for nothing.”
Their guide called out and they left for the next cabin.
“This is a typical carpenter’s home,” the guide explained when the group had quieted down. “The tools are quite primitive, but the skilled carpenter made nearly everything the village needed for daily life.”
Sitting beside a bench at the back of the room was a young boy, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, carving a block of wood. He was tall with broad shoulders and strong hands. Next to him on the bench was a large leather satchel with his tools. The group approached to watch what he was making.
The boy reached into his bag to fetch another tool, but when his hand appeared he was holding a silenced MAC-10 automatic pistol.
“Don’t move,” he said and leveled the weapon at the group with the ease of a practiced soldier, his watchful eye taking in each movement.
The guide screamed and the boy fired a shot into the dirt. “Be quiet!” he shouted.
Finally able to see the boy’s face, Braxton immediately recognized Danny Peters. He had no doubt Peters was ready to follow through on his mission. Whatever that was. Peters’ arm slowly scanned the group, covering each one.
Or almost each one. It was the younger McAllister who first noticed the exception.
“So it’s been you all the time, Michael,” she said flatly. Braxton now noticed that Kennedy had slowly moved himself to the side of the group. The boy had paid him no attention at all.
“Of course, Kerry,” Kennedy replied. “It was all quite easy.”
“What’s going on?” the older McAllister asked.
“Michael brought Wilson into Omega,” the younger McAllister explained. “He wanted to mine the ChildSafe data.”
“But why?”
“So he and his partner, Henry Rockwell, could build an army of child-assassins,” Braxton added. “They are responsible for the deaths in the Middle East.”
Both McAllister jaws dropped.
Kennedy shrugged. “So now you know everything,” he said, turning to the older McAllister. “Enough of all this. It’s time to proceed. Once you and your nosy daughter are gone, I will reluctantly take over Omega. Then Alpha and I will continue Henry’s work.”
Braxton knew what was coming. He also knew Peters had been trained well. A physical attack was not going to succeed. He had to undo what Rockwell had done.
When he had returned to D.C., Braxton had studied everything the CIA had gathered on Peters. He had known the child would reappear. He’d even spoken with his parents in Denver. But did he remember enough?
“Alpha will escape of course,” Kennedy continued. “Those plans were made long ago.” Kennedy turned to Braxton. “I am quite angry about Henry. He was my friend and partner. And you, Mr. Braxton, are the one to blame. I can assure you, your death will not be pleasant.
“Alpha, kill the others.”
“No,” Braxton shouted. “That’s not who you are. You are Danny Peters from Denver, Colorado. Do you remember that, Danny?”
“Quiet!” Kennedy yelled. “Shoot him now, Alpha. That is an order.”
Peters swung the pistol in Braxton’s direction.
Braxton remembered what Slattery had said about brainwashing. How abductors enhanced isolation. He took a chance.
“They lied to you, Danny. Your parents are alive. They miss you. Rockwell wanted to turn you into something you’re not. You’re not a killer.”
“Don’t listen to him, Alpha,” Kennedy screamed. “He lies. They took your family. They killed your brothers and sisters in Edinburgh. You know that. I’m ordering you, kill him now.”
“We didn’t kill your friends,” Braxton said more softly. He had to calm the confrontation. “They’re safe. I have a picture.”
“Lies.” Kennedy continued yelling. “All lies, Alpha. Don’t listen to him. Do your job, dammit!”
“Your sister misses you,” Braxton pleaded. He knew he didn’t have much more time. “Rosy. I know you call her Rosy because she picked all the blooms off your mother’s roses and gave them to her on her birthday. You remember that don’t you? Do you remember Rosy?”
Peters hesitated.
Suddenly Kerry McAllister’s phone chimed. Ignoring the danger, she swiped the phone and her face went white. “You’re the murderer,” she shrieked. “It’s your picture! You murdered my mother.”
Kennedy’s face burst with rage. “That’s what you’ve been doing! You’re analyzing my blood. You bitch! It was an accident. She was dead when I got to the car. I’m no killer.”
Braxton glanced over to Peters. He was watching. And listening. Did he understand what was happening? Who was he going to believe?
“You’re not like them, Danny,” Braxton pressed. “You’re not a killer. Put down the gun. We will take you home.”
“No!” Kennedy howled. “Kill her. Kill him. Kill them all!”
McAllister turned and was about to jump at Kennedy when Peters fired.
Chapter 41
The Grand Hotel, Stockholm, Sweden
Friday, 3:30 p.m.
Skansen had been a nightmare. Peters had shot Kennedy and had collapsed on the floor of the cabin. Their guide rolled into a ball and fell to the dirt as well. The McAllisters simply hung on to each other.
Braxton had grabbed Garretsen and tried, with moderate success, to describe what had just happened. She must have had some crisis training because she had immediately gotten on her phone and called someone, probably the Ministry. Ten minutes
later a squad of police and three ambulances had descended on the cabin. After another ten minutes, the cabin had been emptied and the stunned group of five people had been delivered to a nondescript building in Stockholm. Braxton had never learned what it was.
Braxton and the McAllisters had been locked in an isolated, although comfortable room. They spent the time staring at each other. Even the older McAllister, usually the picture of calm, had seemed unable to deal with the events. Eventually, they had been released, one at a time, to individuals described only as “representatives of the United States of America.”
Braxton’s representative had begun his interrogation with “Roger says hello” and Braxton had relaxed. Just a bit.
After what was by now an all-too-familiar debriefing session, Braxton had been dropped off at the Grand Hotel and told that his latest adventure had never happened.
He had gone to his room and dropped soundly to sleep.
The next day, the local news had reported a medical emergency at Skansen requiring transport of the patient and his tourist group to a hospital. No further information was available.
Apparently, the Swedish authorities would go to extreme measures to protect Nobel Week from negative publicity.
The McAllisters disappeared for the next thirty-six hours. Garretsen couldn’t, or more likely wouldn’t, provide any further information. She did, however, offer to provide guide services to Braxton for further sightseeing. He had passed.
He had spent the day wandering the streets of Stadsholmen, the island that was Stockholm’s old town. The weather was well below freezing and Braxton again thanked Chu for demanding that he take his heaviest wool overcoat.
The island, dating back to the thirteenth century, was a mix of cobbled streets, ancient alleys and Gothic architecture. He did the best he could to behave like a common tourist. He had visited the Nobel Museum, marveling in the wonder that was the genius of the laureates, browsed the stalls of a craft fair in the Stortorget square, and shopped for Chu and Walker in the shops along the Osterlanggatan.
Devon and Kerry McAllister had reappeared on Friday morning when he gave his Nobel lecture at the Karolinska Institute. The lecture hall was packed with professors and bright, young students, all hoping to hear that secret morsel of knowledge that would one day put them in the same position of honor.
The older McAllister had put on his professional face and had given a warm, polished presentation. The younger McAllister hadn’t recovered quite so well. Her face was pale and drawn. She spoke little and followed her father like a scolded puppy.
Braxton had gone back to the hotel. When he had arrived, his tuxedo had preceded him. The two remaining events of Nobel Week were the highlights: the Award Ceremony and the Nobel Banquet. Both required white tie and tails; articles of apparel that were definitely not present in Braxton’s closet. Chu had submitted his dimensions to the Nobel Committee who had arranged for his rental.
After an hour of pinching, pulling and straightening, he felt he had done his best and went downstairs, his invaluable Nobel ticket in hand, for the bus that would take him to the Stockholm Concert Hall, the site of the Award Ceremony. Upon arrival, he ended up standing in an endless, snaking line in the foyer of the Hall. Used to airport lines of travelers in all manner of dress, a line filled with tuxedoed men and elegant women in glittering evening dresses and fur stoles was disconcerting. He did his best to look cavalier.
Braxton eventually passed through a set of security checks that would put TSA to shame and was led by a smiling young usher to his seat—in the first row of the hall. This preeminent position at first surprised him, but then he remembered a conversation he had had with Garretsen. She had explained how Nobel events were planned with the same precision as any other affair of State. First, each of the Prizes awarded at Stockholm were put in order. Braxton was lucky, she had said, because this year the Physiology or Medicine Prize was first. Then came Literature, followed by Economic Sciences, Physics and Chemistry. Every year, this order of the prizes shifted. Next year, Literature would be first and Physiology or Medicine last. Seating at all Nobel events, including the Award Ceremony, followed the same logic.
Within each awardee’s guests, positions were similarly assigned based on the attendee’s relationship to the laureate: blood relatives first, other relatives, professional colleagues, friends, etc. Every attendee was given a number that represented their position in the Nobel hierarchy.
As he watched the hall fill, he suddenly realized he had not checked his email all day. Normally, an unbreakable ritual when he was on the road, this week he had simply not thought about it. If there was anything urgent, he knew Chu, or now Walker, would have called. For the first time since he had started Cerberus, he was confident his business was in good hands. He wasn’t necessary for every decision; for every question. It felt good.
The younger McAllister appeared a few minutes later. She was now poised and very elegant, dressed in a long deep-blue satin evening dress that highlighted her thin waist and broad shoulders. Her hair was pulled into a French braid that spiraled over the back of her head. A few wisps of curly hair fell at her temples. It was a look that caused even Braxton to pause.
She thanked her usher and took a seat on Braxton’s right. He caught a subtle whiff of lavender. It had to be the first time he had ever smelled perfume on the scientist. A quick glance around him verified that she was sitting in the middle of the row: front row center. As was appropriate for the lead laureate’s closest relative.
Braxton sat at her left, while at her right, probably the more prominent position, was a man Braxton had never seen. He assumed this was Kennedy’s position and the Committee had decided the cost of reassigning numbers was simply too great. A fill-in was called for. An empty seat at the Nobel event was simply unacceptable.
On the stage, the new laureates took their places on the left and then the Royal Family joined them on the right. The prizes were presented by the members of the Nobel Committee with all the pomp and solemnity that Braxton would have expected for, in his mind, the most prestigious award in the world.
When her father rose to accept his prize, McAllister’s face lit up. The pride was unmistakable. Then she turned to Braxton and smiled; a relaxed, honest smile.
She mouthed a silent “thank you” and turned back to the ceremony.
A sudden rush of emotion poured over him. It both embarrassed and surprised him.
Maybe I can still be a problem solver.
Epilogue
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Monday, one week later, 8:00 a.m.
“He said what?”
Slattery was sitting in his boss’s office trying to look calm. It wasn’t working.
“Rockwell said his contact was a philosopher with albino eyes,” Slattery replied. “He meant Singer.”
Markovsky pulled his glasses from his eyes and dropped them on his desk. He stared at the ceiling. “So Alfred Whitehead Singer, the ex-Agency operative who orchestrated coordinated domestic militia attacks to hide an assassination attempt on the President, is now fronting a cabal of armament suppliers to kill leaders of the Middle East?”
“And our President,” Slattery added without thinking. He regretted it immediately.
“Thank you so much for that clarification, Roger. I might have forgotten.” Markovsky’s usually pale face had become the color of a ripe beet. “And why did it take you this long to tell me?”
Slattery took a deep breath. “The Agency needed a victory, Peter. You know that. And it’s taken me this long to corroborate Rockwell’s claim.”
“So what have you discovered?”
“MI5 found a few records in Rockwell’s house. They led us to multiple Swiss bank accounts. The financial forensics guys were able to trace the sources of the funds to a number of prominent German banks, but the account holders are hidden behind a maze of cut-outs and shell corporations.
“I checked with my counterpart in the FIS, but h
e couldn’t, or wouldn’t, provide any additional information. He did say, however, that there has been increased activity in their far-right splinter groups. Populist rhetoric has been at an all-time high. Apparently, they have seen some type of coordination between previously fiercely-independent gangs. A number of the instigator’s names have been given by informants, but they’re never consistent. Sound familiar? It proves Singer’s in Germany.”
Markovsky grabbed a cloth from a drawer and began cleaning his glasses. Slattery stayed silent, waiting for the inevitable analysis.
Finally, the DDI replaced his glasses and gazed across the table. “It could be Singer. Or not. Find out. And eliminate this goddamn … instigator, whoever he is.”
Thank you for reading The Langley Profile. I hope you enjoyed it.
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Finally, if you haven’t done so, check out the previous Adam Braxton Thrillers:
The Saracen Incident
The Liberty Covenant
Now keep reading for an excerpt from the next Adam Braxton adventure
The Jason Betrayal
coming in the Summer of 2019.
Chapter 1
Georgetown University Medical Center, Washington, D.C.
Sunday, 2:00 a.m.
Please, God. Don’t let me kill anyone tonight.
First-year resident Catherine Tanner pressed her back against the cold green wall and leaned into the metal file cabinet that held the unending notebooks describing the policies and procedures of the Georgetown University Medical Center Emergency Department. If learning the clinical procedures of an ER physician wasn’t enough, she had discovered the equally obscure domain of knowledge that was hospital and billing requirements.
