Breach of Power (Jake Pendleton 3) Page 5

  Katzer remembered the somber mood of preparing his stepfather’s body while his petite mother stood silent and watched, her blue eyes swollen and bloodshot from the seemingly endless flow of tears. The next day they interred his remains in a small plot in the back of Mt. Olivet Cemetery. The young Katzer thought it odd his mother chose to bury her husband in such a parsimonious manner. It wasn't’ like the family didn't have money. The funeral services business had proven lucrative for the Katzer family. Funerals were expensive and there was never a shortage of customers, especially now, as the baby-boomers were coming of age.

  His mother was one of the most respected funeral directors in Nashville, handling funerals for some of the city’s most prestigious residents including congressmen, senators, as well as several top country music artists. She had a soothing, empathetic voice. While the emotional duress of the situation made the grieving family vulnerable, his mother was an expert at influencing them to open their pocketbooks.

  He flipped open his appointment book and dialed the number. A woman answered on the second ring. “Mrs. Wilson…”

  A few minutes later Katzer placed the phone on the receiver after successfully convincing the family that a viewing was not a good idea due to the condition of the remains. He was surprised by the family's response. Initially, the Wilsons had been downright difficult to deal with and he dreaded making the call, but strangely enough, the family seemed to take this news in stride. Perhaps now they had accepted the painful truth behind the demise of their son. The drugs had alienated him from the rest of the family. In a strange way, Katzer sensed, the Wilsons were relieved the ordeal was over.

  Death can cause a myriad of emotions.

  He remembered a late November day in 1967 when a man was so distraught because the cosmetologist was unable to completely conceal a bruise on his deceased wife's forehead that he balled his fist and struck Katzer on the jaw in the viewing room. Katzer fell backward and crashed into a spray of flowers, shattering vases and ruining the display. He was shocked when he looked up and saw his mother holding a gun. She put a quick stop to the fracas and, after his mother explained the reason for the blemishes on his wife, the man apologized.

  After business hours, Katzer sat with his mother and recounted the day. She explained to him that it wasn’t the first time she had been forced to pull a gun in the funeral home. The first time she actually shot a man. Trying to deal with his loss with a bottle of whiskey, a man came to the funeral home drunk, began to rant, and throw things. He grabbed pictures from the walls and hurled them across the funeral parlor, busted a candle display against the piano, and threw an urn through a window. That’s when she shot him in the leg. The police came, arrested the drunkard and never charged his mother with any wrongdoing.

  That was also the day he found out that Matthew Katzer was not his real father.

  And how he really died.

  And why.

  * * *

  Charleston, South Carolina

  Ashley Regan unpacked her Eagle Creek luggage in a hurry to get to the book. She never got a chance to thoroughly examine it before she and Sam Connors left Europe to return home. Because of the cold and moisture of what she figured must have been decades in the ice, the book must be handled with special attention to avoid damage.

  She had sealed the book in a plastic bag and then wrapped it with care inside some of her clothes before packing it in her checked luggage. She didn't want to risk the possibility of losing the book at security by carrying it onboard.

  There were laws against what she was doing. International laws. She knew because one of her clients narrowly escaped jail time for removing an ancient artifact he discovered while vacationing in the ancient city of Istanbul, Turkey. Found guilty of violations of the UNESCO Convention on the Mean of Prohibiting the Illicit Import, Export, and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property, her client was lucky to walk away with nothing more than a hefty fine and forfeiture of the artifact. All because he thought the item would make a cool display on his mantle.

  When Regan and Connors had reached the summit at Zugspitze, she'd reported finding the man's body. The authorities took her statement and dispatched a crew to recover the body from the ice. The couple’s itinerary took them from Garmisch, Germany to Venice, Italy the next day, which suited Regan. She wanted to get as far away from the German mountain as possible in case someone raised concern over the body found frozen in the glacier. The last thing she wanted was to be called back and interrogated…or worse, have her belongings searched. There was no plausible explanation for her possession of the book and it would have been obvious where she found it. The German authorities would take it back and her troubles would just be starting.

  The two days spent in Italy on pins and needles, wondering if she would be found out, were unnerving. She kept expecting authorities to discover the identity of the frozen man, come after her, and search her luggage for any missing artifacts. She searched the newspapers every day and found it odd that she never saw any news reports about the body she discovered.

  The flight back to the United States was long but the exhilaration and mystery behind the book deprived her of sleep. All she could think about was the leather bound book and what might be written in it. The notion the book didn't contain any secrets never crossed her mind. Even more intriguing was what she found after she had a chance to examine it.

  After she had returned to her room in Garmisch and unpacked the book, she'd noticed a hole in it, small but large enough to slip her finger through. Under the table lamp she noticed a discoloration resembling blood stains on the leather binder. Perhaps it was her imagination gone wild, but after closer inspection she deduced it could have been made from a bullet and that piqued her interest. The thought of opening the book and discovering its secrets caused her heart to race with curious anticipation.

  She located the sweater that concealed the book and carefully unwrapped it. Moisture had coated the inside of the sealed plastic bag containing the book. She assumed the restorative drying process would have to be slow and tedious and she wanted to make sure she didn’t damage the book so she decided not to open the sealed bag until she consulted an expert in document restoration. For added protection, she sealed it inside another bag and then the second bag inside a third. Overkill perhaps, but she didn't care.

  Even though she was exhausted from traveling, the curiosity of her new found treasure fueled her. Her Internet searches for document restorers failed to provide any results near the Charleston area. She decided she’d call the university library to find an expert and then make up a story to get the information she needed.

  While her mind wandered through the intricate details of her scheme, her fingers caressed the book through the plastic bags, feeling every detail. Her middle finger found the hole on the front. She held it in front of the light and saw the filtered glow through the hole in the journal.

  “What is in here that is so important?” She whispered out loud. “And did someone have to die to protect it?”

  5

  Senator Richard Boden was among the most prestigious of the nation's politicians. In addition to his war record, Boden was a founding member of the Inner Circle of the United States Senate. Known as the yachtsmen, although most members didn't even own a yacht, this Inner Circle had wrestled power from a handful of senior senators and changed the way the Senate chose committee chairmanships. In true Orwellian style, the Inner Circle believed not all 100 senators were created equal. They alone held the power. Aspiring new senators were molded—or destroyed—by these Inner Circle members.

  Wiley wanted to make the senator's demise look like natural causes…and that's what Jake resolved to do.

  Four computer monitors surrounded Jake and Francesca, each containing mission sensitive data about Boden, his residence, and his security system. The two had been sitting at the conference table next to the RF lab at METech for the past four and half hours without a break and had made very little progress det
ermining how to handle suspicion from Boden's fellow Inner Circle members. The aging senator was part of the good ol boy system and had strong allies in Washington. They would insist on an investigation and an autopsy.

  Jake stood, yawned, stretched his arms as far as he could, and said, "We're getting nowhere. I'm going to make a head run and get a soft drink. Want something?"

  "Dr. Pepper would be nice. I could use the caffeine." Francesca covered her mouth while she yawned.

  Jake smiled, yawns always seemed contagious, he thought. "You got it." He and Francesca had been paired on missions more times than they'd been on solo missions over the past year. With the exception of the scar on her left cheek, Francesca was a woman of flawless beauty. As a matter of fact, he felt the imperfection added to her Italian mystique. Working as a team had nurtured their friendship and added confidence in each other's abilities. Their strengths and weaknesses created the perfect balance and their skills complimented each other.

  Wiley had created the perfect union.

  He trusted her with his life, and he knew she reciprocated. He supposed that was why Wiley kept them paired. The old man was a matchmaker in the world of espionage. Their vows were simple—From this day forward, I got your back.

  Jake turned toward the door as it opened. Kyli walked in with a smile on her face holding a pack of gum and a clipboard.

  "Piece of cake." She handed the pack of gum to Francesca. "You're all set."

  "That was fast." Francesca took the pack of gum from Kyli and placed it on the conference table.

  "Should I ask how?" Jake asked.

  "How…what?" Kyli asked. "How I finished in such a short amount of time or how the gum works?"

  "Yes," Jake said.

  "Start with how you finished so fast," Francesca said.

  Kyli pointed to one of the computer monitors. "I know him. Isn't that the senator who—"

  "You didn't see that." Jake leaned over the table and minimized the windows on the monitors. "This one's from the top."

  "That explains why this was so simple." Kyli pulled up the clipboard. "Your target has high blood pressure, has had a serious stroke and a major heart attack. He takes nitroglycerin tablets for chest pain. It also looks like he's had several mini-strokes as well, which I'm willing to bet he doesn't even know he's had. So," Kyli picked up the pack of gum, "this is your lethal weapon. It will have a double whammy effect. Within a few minutes of ingestion, he'll have severe chest pains mimicking a heart attack and will grab his nitroglycerin pills and take them. But this formula is already packed with nitro, so he'll overdose but won't know it. Within seconds after ingesting the nitro, the other ingredients will kick in and he'll have a massive stroke that will render him unconscious. Total time from gum to loss of consciousness, four to five minutes. Total time to death, seven to eight."

  "Wow. That fast?" Jake asked.

  "He's no health club member. More like a walking time-bomb." Kyli pointed to the papers scattered on the table. "What'd he do to deserve this?"

  Neither Jake nor Francesca answered her question.

  "I know. I know. You can't tell me. And if you did, you'd have to kill me. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah." Kyli frowned. "Heard it all before."

  "Is it traceable?" Francesca asked.

  "Good question," Jake added. "Our target has some powerful friends who will no doubt want to know how he died. They will suspect foul play and will certainly request an autopsy. Will your formula show up?"

  "Nope. All they'll find is nitro." Kyli checked her watch. "How much longer before you're done here? It's getting time to eat."

  "Kyli, you'll have to eat without Jake tonight," said Francesca. "We still have some logistical issues to work out."

  "She's right, we may be here quite a while," Jake said.

  "Anything I can help with? Knock out the security system? Take out the guards? Blueprints for the house?" Kyli looked at Jake. "I was hoping we could spend a little time together before you leave."

  "Blueprints and security system we've taken care of." Jake said. "His P. A. could be a problem. He always has her with him. Got an alchemy for that?"

  "P. A.? As in personal assistant?"

  "Yes."

  "How old is she?" Kyli asked.

  "Mid to late thirties," Francesca said.

  "Know if she's had a hysterectomy?"

  Francesca answered. "No, but I can get that information for you."

  "That would be great. You know their schedule?"

  Francesca grabbed a piece of paper from the table and handed to Kyli. "As a matter of fact, we do."

  "Thanks, Franny." Kyli studied the schedule for two minutes and then smiled. "I might know just the thing."

  Three hours later, Jake and Francesca completed the planning phase of their mission. An analyst at Wiley's new Virginia office researched the medical history on Boden's P.A. and found no record of a hysterectomy. Kyli had been a big help and offered a solution to their problem with removing Boden's personal assistant from the equation.

  "It is convenient that Boden's P.A. is a woman," Francesca said. "Kyli's solution should work like a charm."

  After he heard the plan he thought the same thing. He knew he and Francesca could control the situation, avoid detection, and administer the compound to Senator Richard Boden. In theory, anyway. And that was the only thing bothering Jake at the moment. If the hit wasn't timed with precision, they might get busted. This was a personal favor for the President of the United States from Wiley. And on a personal level, a chance for Jake to seek revenge for past transgressions.

  "I think that's it." Jake looked at Francesca who was already gathering all the paperwork in one pile. "We're a go for tomorrow night."

  "I don't know, Jake. This mission still bothers me." Francesca looked at her watch. "When it appears easy, something has been overlooked."

  Jake knew about Francesca's failed first mission, an attempt to capture an assassin that resulted in the loss of two of her team members, and that she'd been overly cautious ever since. He knew she was reminded of her failure every time she looked in the mirror and saw her scar. That demon in her past would never leave.

  He knew about demons.

  He had a few of his own.

  "Relax. We've covered every angle and besides." Jake paused. "I've got your back."

  The Hotel Carpinus was a short drive from the lab, just across the canal to the small village of Herent. Jake had spent many nights there on his numerous trips to Belgium and was on a first name basis with most of the hotel and dining room staff.

  Jake grabbed his room key from Jordy at the front desk. Same room as always, number 7. And, as was standard protocol for him at the Hotel Carpinus, he knew the light would be on, his bag would be in his room, bed turned down, and a chocolate on the pillow.

  When he opened the door, he realized he was wrong.

  The only light in the room came from several candles flickering on the dresser. His bag was tossed on the floor, clothes scattered all over. The bed was turned down, but instead of a chocolate on his pillow, it was something much more appetizing.

  Kyli.

  6

  Ashley Regan was an adrenaline junkie and her recent discovery kept her imagination stoked with possibilities. At first, her calls to the College of Charleston seemed a dead end but every junkie knows that persistence is the opposite of failure. She struck pay dirt with the third person she spoke to at the College. The librarian gave her the name of a local antiquary who not only collected antiquities, but also restored damaged documents in his home. The man had assisted several libraries and companies in Charleston with restoring documents and books water damaged as a result of Hurricane Hugo in 1989.

  Regan took the man's name and number and made an appointment to bring the book for an evaluation and restoration estimate.

  One step closer to her goal.

  The contents of the book had become her idée fixe. She had to know what was written inside. Her mind thought of dozens of possibilities
for a bullet hole to be in the leather-bound book.

  She studied the book one last time…touching it through the plastic bags. She used a bright light and magnifying glass to study the water-stained leather cover. The leather-bound book measured roughly 6 inches wide by 8.25 inches tall and was a little over an inch thick. The leather appeared to be cowhide, possibly stained dark, with a pattern tooled on the front.

  Two patterns actually, initials tooled near the top and a small emblem or pattern centered an inch from the bottom. The patterns were worn flat. With the discoloration of the leather, the patterns were impossible to decipher through the sealed plastic bags. Moisture had visibly collected on the inside of all three bags so she didn't dare remove the book.

  She grabbed a blank sheet of copy paper and a pencil then smoothed the plastic bags as much as possible over the front cover. Placing the blank paper on the cover, she gently rubbed the pencil lead across the book. With each pass of the lead across the paper, the patterns from the leather cover slowly appeared. The initials revealed themselves a small portion at a time until they were clear—W. F. It meant nothing to her. But as the smaller pattern emerged that changed.

  A crest.

  With a swastika in the center.

  Now the book had an approximate age dating back to World War II—Nazi Germany.

  A valuable piece to the puzzle.

  The region made sense. Technically she'd found the book on German soil. The identity of the man remained a mystery. Perhaps the protector of the book was a German soldier. Could explain the bullet hole, if that's even what it was. She knew the bloodstains, the hole, and the swastika might arouse suspicion and prompt some questions—questions she was preparing herself to answer. She'd already devised a story, now she just had to make some minor alterations and she had her perfect lie.