Original Sins

by Rick Jones

  “Is your fear greater than your self-control? I know the pressure you’re feeling at the moment, and the gravity of the situation you currently find yourself in. But we had a deal, Mr. Savange. One that will see you through this, should you stay the course.” You’re an assassin, Savange thought. And I’ll always be a loose end to you. How stupid do you think I am? “But the reason why I’m calling,” said Kimball, “is because your intern, Damien Lovecraft, opted to break the covenant we decided upon. He had thoughts of contacting law enforcement. And because he became divided and branched off, I’m afraid that Mr. Lovecraft met with a horrible end that didn’t have to be, if he had followed my rules.” “What did you do to him?” “Two to center mass and one to the forehead. Standard procedure.” “You killed him.” This was a statement, not a question. “We had a deal, Mr. Savange. I can send you pictures if you want. Fall out of line, then you’ll follow Mr. Lovecraft . . . Stay the course and remain close to the phone. Additional instructions on how to conduct yourself will be forthcoming.” And then the line was severed, the call cancelled. “You liar,” Savange told himself while staring at the receiver. Lovecraft didn’t break any agreement. “You killed him because he was a loose end.” Dropping the phone back onto the couch, Peter Savange knew that he was being watched. He didn’t know how or where they were, but he could sense them, feel them, the assassins so close they could probably breathe against his neck with exhales so shallow, he’d probably never know they were there at all. Sitting down at his workstation, Savange quickly booted up the system, brought up documents, and began to type his retraction. His fingers moved quickly as his thoughts raced, nothing but lies pouring as easily as water leaking through a sieve. Who thought that lying was so easy, he thought, as fiction poured from his fingertips and onto the screen? Without missing a beat, Peter Savange continued to write his retraction since he was a man with no options.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Washington, D.C.

  0327 Hours

  Senator Rhames lived in a luxury estate with Roman columns and an expansive balcony that overlooked a manicured lawn and ornamental shrubbery. The interior was nicely paneled in walnut, and the marble floors glistened like ice. In his library, which held numerous rows of shelves that contained law texts and a few paperbacks, was a wall made of fashionable brick that served as a fireplace. Situated high on the paneled wall was a flat-screen TV, 85” and state-of-the-art. He sat in his wing-backed chair wearing his smoking jacket and ascot, lit an ornately designed pipe, blew a plume in the air, and settled back. Sitting across from him on a plush couch made of leather and soft foam was Kimball Hayden. The senator had been awake all night with the wait, at times, unbearable, which was evidenced by the gray half-moons that appeared beneath his eyes. After considering Kimball for a moment, he smiled and said, “Thank you for swinging by. I assume you were able to make certain adjustments to my political landscape?”

  “The wheels are in motion, Senator. And Mr. Savange has been isolated and contained. Additional points were also made so that he would agree to write the retraction, which he has.” “Can we trust him to go forward with this?”

  “If he values his life, yes.”

  The senator winked at Kimball and pointed the pipe in his direction. “I knew you were the man for the job,” he said to the assassin. “You’re a good man, Kimball Hayden, one I knew who could be trusted. The next question is— out of my own curiosity—how were you able to assure that Peter Savange will follow through?”

  “Through the art of collateral damage,” answered Kimball. “I’m afraid that his editor, Ms. Woolery, met with an untimely death; a point of emphasis that drove the agreement home.”

  “I see,” said the senator. “In essence . . . you killed her.”

  Kimball remained silent. Then the senator added, “Had to be done since she was the one who stoked his fires and grew his passion in the first place. She was a burr anyway. A thorn in my side that needed removal. And the intern?”

  “After we landed, I made sure that one of my operatives stayed close. When the time came, he quietly dispatched Mr. Lovecraft.”

  The senator offered an appreciative smile, and then, “You’ve decided to close the loose end, yes?”

  “Mr. Savange was told that Mr. Lovecraft was planning to go to the authorities; therefore, his death was mandatory. More so, it served as an example to Savange, should he decide to do the same. If Peter Savange decides to fall back on his promises, all he has to do is look at the fates of Ms. Woolery and Mr. Lovecraft.”

  “You think he’ll stay in line?”

  “He has no other choice.”

  “And if he decides to run?”

  “You know the organization I run with, Senator, the things we do to achieve the means. I made it abundantly clear to Peter Savange that there was no place to run or hide. The moment he steps outside of Washington, he knows he’ll be a dead man.”

  “And after he writes his retraction?”

  “Then he’ll resign his position at the Post and disappear.”

  “When you say ‘disappear,’ do you mean by his own choosing or by your hand?”

  “Both. He’ll try to run to another country to go off the grid. But we’ll deal with him accordingly and quickly. You’ll have nothing to fear from him.”

  “Excellent,” said the senator. “Give him enough of a leash to respond to the stipulations, and then put him into a choke hold that he’ll never recover from.”

  Kimball remained stiff and regimented while sitting on the couch, almost like a board, which the senator picked up on. Taking a drag of his pipe and blowing out a flavored plume, he finally said, “But something’s bothering you, Kimball. And if something bothers you, it bothers me. What is it?”

  Without hesitation, Kimball asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about the tape?”

  “Alleged tape,” the senator corrected. “To make such an allegation, Senator, that also means that the accusation may have a measure of legitimacy behind it. And if that’s the case, it also means that the action between you and the girl took place . . . Did it?” The senator laid his pipe in the ashtray and sighed through his nostrils. “Look, Kimball, we all have skeletons in our closet, some that we’re so ashamed of that we would like to keep them there. She looked as if she was eighteen, twenty, somewhere around that age.” Wasn’t that always the excuse? Kimball thought. The claim made by everyone when they’re caught in a legal bind. I thought she was older than what she was or what she led me to believe.

  “Could a tape exist?” Kimball finally asked. After a pause, the senator said,

  “Yes. A tape could exist.”

  “Then that’s a problem, Senator. That means there are far more wheels in motion than what we were told. And this goes well beyond Peter Savange and those within his immediate orbit, like Lovecraft and Woolery. Now we’re talking about the girl, her mother, and the person within the Post, the supervising editor who is negotiating a price to get his hands on that film.”

  “It appears that Peter Savange opened up quite a bit about my current circumstances,” said the senator.

  “Something you should’ve told me from the beginning,” Kimball returned. “If we’re to do a proper job, you need to be completely open about the players in this game. One misstep can spell the end of your political standing in the court of public opinion.”

  “I’ve been trying to find out myself if a film truly exists. If there is a negotiation regarding the sale of the film, the players are the mother and her daughter.”

  “I know that. And the standing price for that film is two hundred thousand.”

  “Dollars?”

  The senator appeared genuinely surprised. More so, that value certainly meant that a film most likely existed since the price tag was exorbitant. No one would auction off such an item if it didn’t, since their credibility would be too great to risk for future storylines. If the mother was hesitant to produce the film after she had made the claim, the risk of her failin
g to do so would only belittle her integrity in the eyes of the editors, who would dismiss her declaration as a false accusation. Because of possible litigation factors involved, the Post was dotting their i’s and crossing their t’s to protect themselves. Then from Kimball who sounded irritated by the senator’s admission, said, “Yes. Dollars. And because you remained silent about certain aspects of the project, we now have to deal with other players in the operation.”

  “Like the mother and the child?”

  “As well as the supervising editor of the Post, who is overseeing the negotiations. A lot of loose ends remain, Senator. Obstacles I should have been informed about from the beginning.”

  Senator Rhames looked like an admonished child with his face and eyes cast downward, his shoulders slumped. Then: “You’re right. I wasn’t sure about the tape. I didn’t think I had to go there.” “Savange gave me the names of the players. The mother, daughter, and the supervising editor. A game plan was generated to see this through, one that my team will exercise to finality.” Kimball leaned forward on the couch and narrowed his eyes in subdued anger. “Next time, Senator, for my unit to perform to specification, you need to be candid with me on all fronts from here on in. With that being said—and outside the mother, daughter and the supervising editor who are known to be involved—is there anything else I need to know about this operation?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The senator nodded. “Quite.”

  “The last thing I need, Senator, is for you to put my team in jeopardy because you refuse to give me all the data necessary to see the mission through.”

  “Understood.”

  As Kimball maintained his narrow-eyed stare, the senator felt incredibly vulnerable and weak. From eyes so cold and so bone-chilling, the assassin appeared to have dug deep enough to penetrate the senator’s fears and intimate privacies, his secrets no longer his alone. “Thank you, Senator,” Kimball finally said, his eyes no longer narrowed as he got to his feet. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Senator Rhames lifted his pipe from the ashtray and cupped his hand around the bowl, then he aimed the stem at Kimball and jabbed the air with it. “Are you sure you can see this through? Removing the obstacles, I mean?”

  “I’m confident now that I know all the players involved.”

  The senator nodded. “And you say the wheels are in motion?”

  “To a degree.”

  “Thank you, Kimball. I mean it. A misjudgment on my part should not spell my political doom. I’m human. I make mistakes. But I always see the Light when it comes to the needs of the people of this country.”

  Kimball did not disclose his thoughts as he stood there, the man a towering mass of muscle. Giving a slight nod, Kimball said, “I’ll show myself out.”

  The senator, who released a collective sigh when he heard the door open and close, was very much relieved that Kimball Hayden was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Arlington, Virginia

  0530 Hours

  Mitchell Doherty had been the supervising editor of the Post for almost two decades, always overseeing the stories that became front-page news. Since he had the shield of the first amendment to hide behind, Mitchell Doherty knew that his constitutional protection was a most powerful weapon against the most influential figures in Washington, D.C. Using his cellphone as his morning alarm, Mitchell Doherty grabbed the phone and traced a finger across the screen, killing the wakeup chime that sounded like bells tolling. His wife remained asleep on the other side of the bed, unmoving. Outside the bedroom windows, the sky was a navy blue instead of midnight black, the color signifying the coming of dawn. Putting on his slippers and tying up his silk robe by cinching the knot, Mitchell Doherty exited the room and went downstairs. After placing a cup in his Keurig and dialing up the proper amount needed for his morning coffee, Mitchell Doherty tried to rub the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his hands. Once the coffee cup was filled, he grabbed it and went into the living room. He needed alone time, quiet time, a time necessary to relax before the job’s overwhelming demand as supervising editor. It was always his calm before the storm. Placing his cup on the nightstand and turning on the light, the cast of illumination caught a shape sitting in a chair across the room. He was a large man, a Native American who wore a khaki-green coat with the insignia of the American flag sewn onto the shoulder. Though he was young, he had a hardened look about him that was often affected by a difficult life. In his hand was a suppressed firearm, which was directed at Doherty. Doherty’s mouth opened in mute protest, a perfect O. His knees started to shake and threatened to buckle, but his paralytic terror managed to keep him standing. Using the gun as a pointer, the Native American said, “Sit.”

  And Doherty did so without hesitation. “Who are you? What’s this all about?” The Native American stared at him with expressionless features. Then: “Mitchell Doherty.” The supervising editor wasn’t sure if this was a question or a statement. But when the Native American continued, he knew it was a simple declaration. “Say nothing,” the large man told him with the point of the gun aimed to center mass. “And listen.” Doherty nodded, his mouth now more of an oval shape than a perfect circle. “If you scream, I will kill your wife. Do you understand?” He did. “In the next few minutes, you will be receiving an article from Peter Savange over your email. It will be a retraction to past editorials regarding a certain senator. Once you receive the transmission, you will then forward Savange’s admission to your department head for the noon edition, which is to be placed on the front-page in big, bold letters . . . Is that clear?” “Who are you?” “Did you understand what I just said to you, Mr. Doherty? Are the instructions I just gave you clear?” Mitchell Doherty looked at the weapon, then at the Native American. “You want me to alter the facts and lie to the public, is that it?” “No, Mr. Doherty, I want you to print a retraction that will dispel the printed myths and alleged sins against a particular senator.” “If you’re talking about Rhames, which I know you are, there’s nothing alleged about them . . . The claims are real.” For the twenty minutes that Mitchell Doherty’s coffee grew cold, neither man spoke. The Native American’s eyes, as well as the Glock he was holding, never wavered or redirected away from Doherty, the editor becoming the focal point under the assassin’s watch. And in silence they waited.

  * * *

  Dawn. The morning sky was filled with citrusy colors and scudding clouds as Peter Savange finished his retraction, a seven-page report filled with lies and fabrications. He had painted himself as a man who sought accolades instead of reporting facts, and as someone who fell back to his yellow-journalistic roots which was far beyond the integrity of the Post, and therefore, resigning. For a very long moment he stared at the screen and at the words, the paragraphs, the lies, all a creation of a fable that would instantly kill his career. And then his shoulders fell in defeat as he realized that his dreams would end abruptly. The man who was Peter Savange would be no more once he hit the ‘send’ button, the journalist in him dying the moment of the button’s push. Feeling a sting of tears within his eyes, he set the cursor over the ‘send’ symbol with his finger on the mouse and considered his future. No TV interviews. No accolades in the field of journalism. No tributes or compliments from those within the field, from the gods of reporting. Peter Savange would forever become a ‘nobody’ at the simple push of a button.

  Then doubts began to percolate and surface. But this newfound courage quickly faded after remembering the moment of Michelle Woolery being tossed from a jet and clicked the button to the mouse. And just like that the script was gone, the false accounts of Senator Rhames sent through cyberspace. Everything was now in the hands of Mitchell Doherty, his supervising editor. A moment later his computer pinged, the sound of an incoming message. Going to his email, Savange brought up the message with the sender and address encrypted. It read: CONGRATULATIONS, MR. SAVANGE, ON FOLLOWING THROUGH. YOUR TASK IS NOW COMPLETE. NOW AN ADDED NOTE: LET THE GAME
BEGIN. . . . RUN AS FAR AND AS FAST AS YOU CAN . . . Savange’s eyes ignited as the message became scrambled, turned into unknown symbols, then disappeared, the communication completely scrubbed from the hard drive. Savange didn’t hesitate. He went to his bedroom, grabbed a suitcase, tossed in a few clothes, a few necessities, and quickly vacated the apartment. He had been a puppet used to accomplish the chores necessary. Now he was a loose end running for his life. I knew he was lying, he told himself. How stupid was I to believe otherwise? Damnit!

  * * *

  There was a ping on Mitchell Doherty’s computer, the sound of incoming mail. Doherty looked at the computer station, knowing that he had shut off the computer the night prior. “I took the liberty to boot it up,” said the Native American. “Now do exactly as I say, Mr. Doherty, or your wife dies.” “And what about me?” But the Indian’s response caught Doherty off guard. “You have two children,” he said. “Both girls. One lives in Las Vegas, the other in Spokane. You’re also the grandfather of six children ranging from ages six to fourteen. Good kids. Kids that have a bright future if there’s no running interference to alter their longevity.” “Are you threatening my family?” “Do as I say, Mr. Doherty, and your family will remain untouched. That’s a promise. Remain obstinate, however, and the people I work for will personally see that your entire lineage will be wiped out, so say nothing and do what I tell you. If you deviate at all from my instructions or try to slow down the process— trust me, Mr. Doherty, you will not like the outcome. Nor will your family members. Do I make myself abundantly clear?” Doherty nodded. “Very good,” stated the Native American who stood up. Even with eight foot ceilings, the man seemed enormous. “Now answer your email and open the attachment. It will be encrypted, so I’ll give you the necessary instructions to decode it.” Mitchell Doherty did as he was ordered. He sat at the station, brought up his email and opened it. As the Native American had stated it was entirely encrypted, the characters nothing but odd symbols and configurations. After spelling out how to decipher the manifest, which Doherty was able to do, the Native American carefully read it in full, as did Doherty, who was, as editor, forced to make corrective changes. Once done, Mitchell Doherty forwarded the piece to the department head with specific orders for immediate processing with no questions asked. The retraction was to hit the pages by noon with a full and complete apology from the Post, which would no doubt be a topic of the evening news. Mitchell Doherty eased away from the computer. “Now what?” he asked. “Now you’ll kill me?” The Native American pointed to the couch with the point of his suppressed Glock where Doherty originally took his seat by the nightstand, and ordered, “Over there . . . Sit.” Doherty did as he was told. “Now what?” The assassin reached into the pocket of his khaki-green jacket and pulled out an orange bottle, a prescription for medication, and held it before Doherty in display. “Valium,” he said. “I found it in the medicine cabinet, though the prescription belongs to your wife. But that doesn’t matter.” He tossed the bottle at Doherty, which landed on his lap. The supervising editor picked up the bottle. “You want me to kill myself, is that it? Make it look like a suicide?” “It’ll be quick and painless.” Then the Native American pointed to the coffee cup sitting on the nightstand. “You can down them with that,” he said. Doherty placed the bottle on the stand. “I won’t do it.” “Listen to me very clearly, Mr. Doherty. If you don’t make this sacrifice, then you sacrifice the lives of your loved ones. Your wife. Your daughters. Your grandchildren. And believe me when I say this: the people I work for will see this done by the end of the day. The choice is yours to make, of course. But I would make it quickly, since there is a clock in what we do.” Doherty looked at the bottle with consideration. Then: “How will I know that my family will be safe?” “They’re not loose ends like you. Take the pills, go to sleep, and pass on.