by Dave Edlund
Abe felt his mouth go dry, and he gulped the remainder of his wine. “The votes are lining up. Soon, I will bring the matter before the House.”
“Good, because I suspect you know what happens otherwise,” Duss replied.
Silence hung heavy as Schuman tried to read Duss, an impossible task. “There’s much at play here,” Schuman said. “Has Ellison kept you informed?”
Duss remained impassive other than a raised eyebrow, his eyes stygian black voids.
With a dramatic sigh, Schuman said, “Look, we have to be careful; discretion is of the utmost importance. That’s why my Chief of Staff is liaising with Cliff Ellison, creating a buffer to insulate the two of us. You do understand the big picture?”
“I think you are getting to the point. Please. Continue.”
Abe’s eyes shifted right and left, ensuring they were well away from curious ears. “Prime Minister Feldman and I share a common interest.”
“Pray tell.”
Abe answered unapologetically. “The map of the Middle East must be permanently altered to ensure future peace and sustainability.”
“Tell me,” Duss said, “do you think the American public will support a full-scale war?”
“We’ve been in a near-constant state of war since Bush was in office. So what’s new? Taylor’s popularity has been slipping steadily since he pulled support for the Israeli Security Act. And did you hear the political pundits from both sides skewer him the day after his veto? Americans just don’t agree with lifting the sanctions on Iran and essentially giving the Ayatollahs a green light to develop or acquire a bomb.”
Impassively, Duss glared back at Schuman.
He nudged Duss toward a deserted corner. “Trust me. The pieces are falling into place. Once I’m elected, my first official action will be to correct decades of failed foreign policy.”
This time, when Claude Duss smiled, it was genuine. “That will be good for business.”
“So I trust I may count on your continued support?”
Duss extended his hand. “Of course. Cliff Ellison will keep me informed of his conversations with Ms. Meyers. Now, I should find my wife. One so beautiful should not be left alone for long.”
After he’d crossed the room, Duss switched off the micro recorder in his jacket pocket.
Chapter 14
Bend, Oregon
April 19
What Peter needed most was time. He’d taken Kate to his home above EJ Enterprises last night following the incident with the FBI agent. They made small talk while Peter prepared a light meal—microwaved soup-in-a-can, cheese, and carrot sticks. She picked at her meal, finally pushing it aside. “I’m scared. Maybe I should go to the police.”
“They can’t protect you, Kate. We don’t even know who is behind this. There could be informants within the Police Department.”
She stared back, exhaustion and fear etched on her face. Peter showed Kate to the guest suite down the hallway from the kitchen, and then excused himself, bidding her goodnight.
Making sure Kate’s door was shut, Peter then opened the hidden door built into the floor-to-ceiling bookcase in the great room. He unlocked the gun safe and retrieved a Remington 12-gauge riot gun with one hand and a box loose-filled with 00 buckshot shells with the other. He was working his jaw as he stuffed shells into the tubular magazine. When it was full, he jacked one into the chamber and then pushed in a replacement. His anger was simmering, threatening to boil over. He needed to control his emotions.
Think. His home was on the second and third floors above EJ Enterprises, which meant that a forced entry was, for practical reasons, most likely limited to the front door or the door connecting to the staircase that led down to his business. Fortunately, both doorways joined to the great room. “Well Diesel, this is where we make our stand,” he said to his ever-present companion.
Peter nudged one of the stuffed chairs in front of the fireplace, turning it so he could easily watch both doors. Then, resting the shotgun against the chair, he laid a fire in the hearth. There was enough seasoned wood stacked next to the fireplace to last all night. Next, he lit several survival candles and placed them at the corners of the room. The candles would burn for ten to twelve hours and, combined with the firelight, would illuminate even the darkest recesses of the great room should the power be lost—or deliberately cut.
Peter had only met Kate Simpson on two occasions. Yet strangely he felt a connection to her, and the experience was foreign—forgotten. Was it only that they had both shared a tragic loss, or something more? Focus. Don’t go there—not now.
“Well Diesel, looks like we have a job.” Peter placed a couple of large logs on the growing fire and then relaxed into the soft chair. With the shotgun across his lap, he kept running the facts over and over in his mind. He felt himself moving over the edge, into a familiar space where everything was black and white, good and evil. He shuddered to recall some of the violent deeds he’d carried out when in this mental state—when forced to devolve from civilized behavior and the rule of law.
Diesel had already sensed his master’s anxiety and edge. The powerful pit bull—normally extremely friendly and docile—sat at the base of the chair, muscles tense, his ears alert and eyes moving rhythmically from one door to the other—then back again.
Neither Peter nor Diesel would get any rest as darkness settled in. Kate couldn’t have been better protected if a platoon of SEALs was camped out in the great room.
Throughout the night, Peter sat in that chair in front of the fireplace—occasionally stoking the fire, the pump-action 12-gauge never leaving his grip, and Diesel vigilant at his feet. If anyone tried to enter, they would be stopped—gravely wounded if not killed—before they cleared the threshold.
There was no doubt in Peter’s mind that he could protect Kate—and himself—at his residence. But he also recognized that if the police came he’d lose that ability. It was only a matter of time before Detectives Colson and Nakano knocked on his door, no doubt with an arrest warrant alleging he had assaulted an FBI agent. He was convinced that someone within the agency was on the payroll of whoever was trying to keep the Liberty files secret.
He’d tried to reach Jim, but the call went to voicemail. If anyone could find answers and unravel this mystery, it was Commander James Nicolaou and his team of intelligence analysts at the Strategic Global Intervention Team, or SGIT.
Jim and Peter had become best friends in high school, before following disparate paths as adults. Fate intervened, reuniting the two friends a couple years ago. Since that time, Peter had provided assistance to SGIT—and vice versa—on several occasions.
The ring tone startled Peter. He’d been half asleep, still cradling the shotgun. “Yeah,” he said.
“You awake?” It was Jim Nicolaou.
Peter quickly shook off the lethargy. “Good. You got my message.”
“Sorry I missed your call. What’s going on?”
Peter filled in the details—Kate had spent the night at his place using the guest room, Gary had returned to his business in the gold country in the foothills east of Sacramento, and at any moment the police could arrest Peter again.
“This all began with secret files hacked from a government database?”
“That’s right. I don’t know why someone would commit murder over this information, or who is behind it all. But I’m running out of time and options.”
“And you’re certain that was not an FBI agent you assaulted last night?”
“He was packing a Mk-9 magnetic impulse gun and driving a sedan with Washington plates. Said he worked from the Portland office.”
“Maybe he works for the Bureau and was also moonlighting for someone else?”
“Great. That would make him a crooked agent. Do you have anything encouraging to offer?”
“I’ll get Lacey working on the secret files, see what she can dig up on the Liberty that isn’t already public knowledge. Shouldn’t be hard. In the meantime, what are you
r plans for Kate Simpson?”
“I need to get her to a safe location—hoping you’d help me with that.”
“I can have the jet at the Bend airport in about two hours. She can stay here at SGIT in one of the dorm rooms we have for contractors.” SGIT maintained a business jet and three pilots. The flight from McClellan Field in Sacramento, where SGIT was located, to Bend would take just about an hour, wheels up to wheels down.
“Thank you, buddy. It will be a huge relief knowing she’s there.”
s
Peter filled Kate in during the short drive to the private airstrip on the east side of Bend. They’d left Peter’s house shortly after his phone call with Jim. and were waiting at the airport when the SGIT business jet landed.
It taxied to a stop in front of the modest terminal, really a one room waiting area combined with administrative offices. The door opened and the steps were lowered. Immediately Peter recognized Jerry Balvanz—a.k.a Iceberg, for his mop of silver-blond hair—and Beth Ross, one of the intelligence officers. They’d met on previous missions.
“Good to see you again, Peter,” Jerry said as he extended his hand.
“Thank you for making the trip. I feel better knowing Kate will be at The Office,” he said, using the nickname for the SGIT headquarters.
Beth took Kate’s small bag and turned, expecting Kate to follow her up the stairs into the waiting aircraft, engines still idling.
Kate offered her hand to Peter. “Thank you.”
Peter’s smile was warm, genuine. There was something about this woman…
“Don’t mention it. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do. You’ll be safe with my friends until it’s over.”
“And when it is over, I owe you dinner. I insist,” her eyes gleamed, despite all she’d been through.
“It’s a deal,” Peter said, and released her hand. She climbed the stairs and disappeared inside the fuselage.
“The Commander says he’ll have an update for you later today,” Jerry said. He was taller than Peter by two inches, and his frame was solid muscle. “Lieutenant Lacey is already working the problem.”
Peter nodded.
“What are your plans now, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’ve got a phone call to make. Figured I should be the one to tell the Bend Detectives what happened last night before they hear about it through other channels.”
“Understood. I’ll fill in Commander Nicolaou. Well, time to go.”
They shook hands again, and Peter turned to leave.
s
After returning to EJ Enterprises, Peter phoned Detective Colson. “I have an incident to report,” he said. Peter explained everything in detail, including why he suspected Agent Barnes was a fake. She asked many questions, most two or three times. Peter imagined she was taking copious notes.
Finally she asked, “You said he had a Mk-9 impulse pistol.”
“Yes, that’s right. I took it from him. The serial number matches a lot we produced last year and sold to the Department of Defense along with 5,000 rounds of ammunition. The shipping records you have will confirm my statement.”
“So it wasn’t stolen.”
“Like I said from the beginning: there hasn’t been any theft of weapons or ammunition from my business. I suggest you check with the Pentagon. If you ask me, Agent Barnes should not have had that weapon. It is highly restricted. As far as I know, the Mk-9 is only available to Special Forces of the U.S. military.”
“I’m going to need that weapon and a statement from you. I’ll be right there. Don’t go anywhere.”
Peter sighed. He had known this was likely and preferred to get it over with. Still, he saw the endless questioning unnecessary and tiring, especially now that what he’d said from the beginning was being corroborated, at least regarding the disposition of the weapons his company manufactured.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll be waiting for you in my office.”
s
Detectives Colson and Nakano arrived less than twenty minutes later. As always, Colson had her notepad out—she was old school, preferring pen and paper—and was reading from it while Peter placed the Mk-9 pistol on his desk. Before either detective had a chance to ask, he demonstrated that it was not loaded while ensuring the muzzle always pointed safely to the side.
“You said you recognized it in the agent’s shoulder holster,” Colson said.
“That’s right. See these two LEDs?” Peter pointed to a spot on the back of the action, just above the handgrip. “Pretty distinctive. Not found on any other handgun. The lights indicate the status of the magnetic impulse action.”
“Just how does this weapon system function?” Detective Nakano asked. She sounded genuinely curious. Peter walked the detectives through the process, explaining the ten cylindrical electromagnetic coils spaced along the barrel; how they were sequentially energized as the magnetic projectile accelerated down the barrel.
Nakano was examining the gun. It was all black and looked much like an ordinary semi-auto pistol, except the barrel was a plastic tube. She pointed to a small black dial on the side of the action. “What is the function of this knob?”
“That’s to turn the power up or down. You see, unlike conventional ammunition, in which the bullet velocity is largely determined by the powder charge in the cartridge, the Mk-9 is electrically operated. This means we can increase or decrease the strength of the magnetic field that accelerates the projectile, thereby changing the speed of the projectile.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Colson asked, suddenly interested in the conversation.
“Special Ops. Sometimes they want a subsonic round for stealth, other times they want a high-velocity round for maximum effective range. Just depends on the specific circumstances. The soldier can make that determination on the spot, dial in the appropriate velocity, and let it go. No need to carry a range of special rounds, not to mention the time invested in changing loads.”
“So, if this was dialed down in power, it would be totally silent?” Colson asked.
“Yeah. Except for a slight metallic click from the trigger mechanism. It’s a single shot action, but it’s not hard to learn how to load the next round without making noise.”
She pressed further, developing a theory. “And if it was dialed down, say on minimum power or close to it, what kind of penetration would you get up close?”
“Not much. Depends on the medium—soft and fleshy or hard, like bone—and distance, of course. Even the lowest level of body armor would defeat the round. It might not even fully penetrate several layers of heavy clothing.”
“What if clothing isn’t an issue?”
“Like a head shot?” Peter asked.
Colson nodded.
“There wouldn’t be an exit wound.”
She locked eyes with her partner. “We’ll run the ballistics. But I think we have our murder weapon.”
Chapter 15
Bend, Oregon
April 20
It was late morning, and the Old Mill District was bustling. There was a steady flow of shoppers moving in and out and past the upscale stores. Cars moved by slowly, most seeking a coveted parking slot, others simply trying to exit and return to home or work.
From her seat at the coffee shop across the street from EJ Enterprises, Jana Cooke watched as the Bend Police Detectives got in their unmarked sedan and drove away. She didn’t understand why police departments bothered with unmarked vehicles anyway—from the stock, basic model sedan, to the plain steel wheels, to the license plates indicating the vehicle was publically owned—you’d have to be blind to fail to recognize it as a police car.
She finished her latte—it was lukewarm—and considered ordering another when Peter Savage exited the building. He stood on the sidewalk, collecting his thoughts for a few seconds and breathing in the clean air, before turning and strolling toward the shops. She shadowed him from the opposite side of the street.
He passed seve
ral shops—an art gallery, a sandwich shop, two clothing stores—and came to a crosswalk. As Peter turned and crossed the street, Jana realized he was coming directly toward her. She pretended to answer her phone and pivoted to the right, entering a shoe store. From there she continued to watch Peter Savage for another half block before he was out of sight.
She quickly left the shoe store and almost jogged for a couple seconds until her mark was in sight. Abruptly, Peter stopped and turned.
For a moment their eyes met.
Peter instinctively sensed something was wrong. Sure, it wasn’t uncommon for a gaggle of shoppers to slowly meander in the same direction, moving as if all were caught in some sort of invisible fluid, pushed along until—one by one—they peeled off into a boutique or eatery.
This was different. The woman had a determined glare, and she hesitated, just for an instant, when Peter turned. No, this wasn’t a shopper or someone planning to meet a friend for lunch. This person was on business.
With nowhere to turn, and knowing Peter had made visual contact, Jana quickly decided that her only move was to keep walking forward, right past him as if he was of no more importance than any of the hundreds of other strangers on the sidewalk.
Peter stood there, hands by his side. “Hey, do I know you?” he said as she passed within two feet. He was looking over his shoulder and caught a second hesitation before she kept walking. Peter turned and followed.
Jana Cooke picked up her pace and turned right onto a walkway that connected to a side alley. She entered Pinnacle, a major outdoor equipment and apparel retailer. Peter followed only a handful of steps behind.
She moved deep into the store, passing racks of rain parkas and finding her way to the tents and sleeping bags. As she rounded a display shelf holding rolled-up sleeping pads, she glanced at Peter. His gaze never left her.
“May I help you find something?” a sales clerk asked Peter.
“Uh, no. No thank you.” Jana made for the door while Peter was distracted by the clerk.
