By Randy Govey
rango@juno.com
This story -- my first -- would never have been written without the encouragement of Karin Ransdell, who has been there for me from the beginning. She has become my mentor, my sounding board, my best critic, and a finer friend is not to be found on this earth.
Dedication:
To my best friend, Karin, with love.
"Cold as the northern winds
In December mornings,
Cold is the cry that rings
From this far distant shore.
I'll wait the signs to come
I'll find a way.
I will wait the time to come.
I'll find a way home..."
"Exile"
Enya
"Tell me again, Benny, why paperwork is such an essential part of police work and not a royal pain in the ass. Try to make it funny this time - I could use a good laugh," said Ray Vecchio, taking a bite from a fresh jelly donut.
"It's essential to get the facts on paper while they're still fresh in your mind, Ray," explained Ben Fraser. "You may have to refer back to them in future in the event, let's say, that you have to appear in court as a witness, and if the trial isn't for a year or two, facts might slip your mind."
"Mmlszett...." said Vecchio, spraying sugar from the donut onto the desk.
"As your mother would tell you Ray, it's impolite to speak with your mouth full. When you finish, would you repeat what you said?"
Ray took a sip of coffee to wash down the mouthful of donut.
"Bullshit, was what I said - and leave my mother out of this. Nothing slips my mind. My mind's like a steel trap."
"Is that the same steel trap that forgot Frannie's birthday last month?"
"All right - I wrote it in the wrong block on the calendar - sue me. Aren't I entitled to a little slack once in a while?" he asked, spreading his arms out to either side as if appealing to Fraser for forgiveness. Suddenly, the donut was no longer in his hand.
"What the hell...Dief! Goddamn you, bring that back!" Ray shouted as he saw the white plume of the wolf's tail sticking up from behind another desk.
"I wish you wouldn't feed him donuts, Ray," said Ben, trying not to smile and not quite succeeding. "You're going to spoil him."
"I didn't feed it to him - he scarfed it right out of my hand. Fur bearing thief! Bring that donut back here!"
"He can't hear you, Ray. Besides, do you really want it back now?" Ben asked. He was watching a stranger in a brown leather bomber jacket walking into the precinct room and heading in their direction.
"Ugh - guess not. Shit, it was the only strawberry filled one in the box, too, damnit!"
"Detective Vecchio?"
Both men looked up at the stranger Ben had seen entering the precinct room. Ben estimated the man to be about six feet tall, maybe an inch or so taller, about 175 pounds, medium build, brown hair and eyes, and what Ben would have to describe as a good-looking, "friendly" sort of face - the kind of face you'd look for in a crowd if you were lost and needed directions or help. Besides the brown leather bomber jacket, he wore a navy blue turtleneck, black jeans and brown leather chukka boots.
"Who are you, slick?" Ray asked.
"Shepherd, James D.," the stranger said, flipping open his leather ID wallet for their inspection. "Captain, U.S. Army Intelligence Investigator." He extended his hand.
"I'm Detective Vecchio," Ray said, shaking the officer's hand, "and this is Constable Benton Fraser, Deputy Liaison Officer, RCMP."
"A pleasure, Constable," Shepherd said, "I've never met a Mountie before."
"The pleasure is mine, Captain. And I've never met an Army investigator before, either."
"Then we're even," Shepherd said, grinning. Turning to Ray, he continued. "Our office talked to a Lt. Welsh about your department assisting us in an investigation in the area, and he said he was assigning you to give us a hand. Desk sergeant told me where to find you. Guess I'm a couple of minutes early. Did I get the time wrong? I thought the lieutenant said 10:00 AM."
Ray glanced at the clock showing 9:55 and muttered, "He may have, hang on - this is the first I've heard of it. I have to check this with the lieutenant. Excuse me a minute, Captain." He got up from the chair and muttered to Ben, "Shit, this is all I need - now I have to bother the old man."
Ben just smiled and said, "Ray, you're the one that said his bark is worse than his bite."
"Benny, that's only when somebody else is in there." He walked up to Lt. Welsh's office door and knocked. He heard Welsh's, "Yeah, it's open," and opened the door just enough to stick his head in - looking like a turtle ready to pull his head back just as fast as possible if the old man was in a bad mood - which was most of the time.
"Uh, sir? You got a minute?"
"What is it, Vecchio? Make it fast."
"Yes sir. There's some Army spook out here that says his office talked to you about our helping in an investigation and that he was given my name to see. If it's true, it's the first I've heard of it."
"Vecchio, don't you ever look in the inbox on your desk, or is that only to use as a donut box holder? If you people would read your frigging memos," he said, raising his voice so that the whole room could hear him, "we could get a hell of a lot more done around here. It's in your inbox, Vecchio, go find it!"
"Yes sir," Ray said. "Thanks." He softly closed the door and quickly turned away, hoping the old man wouldn't think of something else to yell about. He walked back to the desk.
"I suppose you heard that?" He asked, looking at Ben.
"I think people across the street could have heard it, Ray," Fraser admitted.
"Figures," Ray grumbled, picking up the box of donuts and looking in the inbox for the assignment sheet.
At the sight of the box held in the air, Diefenbaker bounded over with an expectant look.
"Forget it, you thief," said Ray, "you had more of that damned donut than I did."
The army captain laughed. "What a beautiful animal - whose is it?"
"You could say he's mine," said Ben. "I suppose, technically, that I'm more like his. He thinks he's the Alpha leader. He saved my life years ago and now he thinks he owns me."
"Where the Christ is that damned...oh, here it is. Shit, it's got jelly on it." Ray dropped the donut box back in the inbox and looked over the sheet. "You're right," he said to Shepherd, "Ten o'clock. How can I help you, Captain?"
"Please, gentlemen, let's drop the rank. I'm Jim or Shep to my friends and if we're going to be in such close quarters for a while, we might as well be on a first name basis - if that's okay with you Benton, and... Ray, is it, Detective?"
"Fine by me," said Fraser, "and it's Ben."
"Ray is fine with me, Jim - or do you prefer Shep? And why would you, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Jim is fine around you guys. My father is also James, and I also have two friends named Jim, so when we were all growing up and hanging around together, especially at my house, too many Jim's got confusing, so they started calling me Shep, and it stuck."
"All right, I'll start again. How can I help you...Jim?"
"This is going to take a while - is the coffee here any good?"
"That's like asking the Borgia family for a glass of wine," Ray admitted. "Either one will probably kill you. I wouldn't put the stuff they make here in my crankcase. Engine would seize up. Coffee shop around the corner - who's buying?"
"I am," said Jim. "Now?"
"Sooner the better. Coming, Benny? Or do you have to be at the Consulate?"
"Not until 12:30. They blend their own Earl Grey tea at that shop - sound's good. Let's go, Dief."
The wolf pushed his way past the three men and was the first one out the door.
While Ben, Ray and Shepherd waited for their orders, Ben watched the faces of the customers sitting near the windows by looking at the reflections in the glass panel behind the stainless steel serving counter. He liked the oddities of different perceptions. If he had been facing the windows and the neon sign hanging near the top of the glass, he would have had to read the sign backwards, but by looking at the reflection in front of him he could read the name Carmen's Creative Coffees as easily as if he was outside looking in.
As usual, Ray - the perfectionist when it came to anything with Italian origins - was trying to tell the poor girl behind the counter the precise way to make a proper cappuccino. The girl was getting flustered and Ben figured any minute now she'd reach for the nearest stainless carafe and let it fly at Ray. Shepherd must have noticed it as well, as he said, "C'mon Ray, some time before the date on my watch changes."
"Oh, all right," said Vecchio, "I guess it'll have to do. Thank you, sweetheart," he said to the girl - who just glared at him. He moved down to the other end of the counter to the donut and pastry rack, leaving Ben and Shepherd to place their orders.
"A cup of Earl Grey, please, Miss," Ben said to the girl - who smiled, seeing the handsome Mountie. "Thank God," she said, "someone with manners. Earl Grey - and you sir?" She asked, looking at Shepherd.
"A cup of the special dark espresso, please."
"Yes, sir. We grind that to order, and the tea will take a few minutes to steep, so if you gentlemen would like to take a seat, I'll bring them out to your table."
"Thank you," said Ben and Jim in unison. They looked at each other and smiled - then moved down to the donut and pastry rack. Ben picked up an apricot danish, and Shepherd grabbed a chocolate-iced donut with jimmies. Ray was already sitting at the table nearest the counter.
"What took you guys so long?" Ray asked.
"We would have been here sooner if certain people didn't try to reinvent the wheel," said Shepherd, smiling. "Could you possibly have given that poor girl any more grief?"
"Who, Betty? She knows I'm kidding around - the girl loves me."
"I'll say - about as much as a cobra loves a mongoose," said Ben - making Shepherd stifle a laugh.
"See? Here comes my girl, now," Ray said, motioning towards the approaching waitress.
Betty set Ben's tea and Shepherd's espresso in their respective places, and said, "There you go, guys. Need anything else, let me know."
Ray said, "We will, sweetheart."
"Hmmph!" Betty said and walked back behind the counter.
Shepherd grinned, pretended to turn up his jacket collar and said, "Did it suddenly get chilly in here?"
"Very," said Ben. He sipped at his tea. "Mmm. This is very good. It has more Oil of Bergamot than the commercial variety. Legend has it that this specific blend has been popular for over 150 years since the time of the second Earl Grey."
"Fascinating," said Vecchio. "What the hell's that you're drinking, Jim?"
"Dark espresso."
"Jesus. You pulling an all-nighter? Why don't you just swallow a box of No Doze?"
"It's not as bad as you'd think. Just don't drink any after 5:00 PM if you want to sleep that night. The stuff the Army makes on bivouac is worse - a pot of that coffee contains almost an entire pound of grounds."
"Christ," Ray said. "Transaxle fluid."
"Looks like it when it's cold," Jim laughed. Suddenly he stopped smiling. "What the hell is this...?"
The door burst open and an obviously terrified youth ran in. "Back door!" He screamed. "Where's the fucking back door?"
Before the waitress could answer, the door burst open again and three other youths sauntered in. Ben noticed that the three had maroon bandannas around their necks, while the terrified youth had a yellow bandanna around his right upper arm. Gang colors.
The first of the three toughs - obviously the leader - carried a hardwood staff of about five feet in length and about one and a half inches in diameter. It was carved with symbols of some sort - some mystical-looking runes to supposedly make the owner feel powerful, perhaps. The second gang member had brass knuckles on each hand - the right hand sporting those particularly nasty ones with the protruding spikes. The third, and obviously the youngest member's hands were empty - but Ben was willing to bet he was carrying, at the least, some kind of knife. You also could never be sure if any of them were carrying guns.
"We warned you before, Larry, to keep offa our fuckin' turf. You don't have your big brother and his friends around to save your ass now, do ya, you little shit?"
Ray slid his chair back and stood up. "Well if it isn't King Shit Belowski and the South Side Morons".
"That's Maroons. And fuck you, Vecchio. Our business is with Petrucci, not you," spat the gang leader, watching Ben and Shepherd also get to their feet. "We're just gonna deal with this piece of shit and we'll be on our way."
"This piece of shit as you call him is a paisan. Petrucci, is it? You from 10th Avenue?"
"Yeah. Wish I was there now," Larry said.
"I'll bet. Boys, I'll tell you what. You three go your merry way right now and go back to your own neighborhood and I'll forget about enforcing a couple of blatant weapon's charges I can see from here - deal?"
"After I break this punk's head open I'll be glad to leave. How's that for a deal?" He laughed, then looked towards the end of the counter and yelled, "Hey, bitch, what the fuck are you doin'? You call 911? Now I'm gonna have to fix your ass, too. Might be fun. Whatcha think, boys?" He asked, grinning. As he started towards the counter, Shepherd started moving to the side - bringing himself between the gang leader and the waitress.
"Bad move, man," Belowski said. Now we're gonna have to mess you up, too." He moved towards Shepherd.
"Don't!" Ray yelled. "Shit," he hissed to Ben. "I can't draw and fire quick enough and I might hit Shepherd."
What happened next, happened so fast that it seemed to be over before it began.
The leader thrust the staff toward Shepherd, who parried with his left forearm and drove the heel of his right palm straight into the leader's chin, snapping his head back. The stunned leader grunted and this time tried to thrust from his left. Shepherd stopped the staff with a two-hand block, grabbed the staff and the leader's wrist and swept the staff around and over - executing a perfect Aikido wrist throw, leaving the staff in Shepherd's hands and sending the leader onto his back - hard. As he attempted to get up, Shepherd struck him straight in the jaw with one heel of the staff, knocking him out.
Brass Knuckles was trying to move in now. Shepherd started spinning the staff like a thing possessed - twirling it in front, then slipping it behind his back and reversing the spin until it was like a blur. Suddenly moving a step forward, Shepherd released the spin and snapped one end out in an arc, catching Brass Knuckles in the right side of the head. Moving to his right, Shepherd now used the staff to sweep the dazed tough's legs out from under him. The tough went down hard, striking the back of his head on the hardwood floor.
Looking for the third tough, he saw the youth just standing there staring, in shocked amazement, at his two friends on the floor. "You want any of this, kid?" Shepherd asked.
"No way, man. I mean, no, sir."
"Good," said Vecchio, who now had a pair of cuffs on the leader. "Then sit down right there and stay there." Ben had snapped a pair of cuffs on Brass Knuckles, and relieved him of the weapon on each hand.
"Betty, did you get through to 911?" Ray asked, checking the tough for any other weapons.
"They said right away," she stammered.
"Figures - the closer to the station, the longer it takes. Should have told them the donuts were free, they'd have been here already. You. What's your name? Larry," Ray said to the still terrified youth, "stay put and we'll have a unit drive you home. I hope you learned something. Dump this gang horseshit, and don't go looking for trouble. Sometimes you go looking for it and it finds you instead. You read me, paisan?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"Don't thank me, there's the guy you should thank," he said, pointing to Shepherd. He walked over to Ben. "Damnedest thing I ever saw, Benny. How about you?"
"I haven't seen anything quite like it before. Except in the movies and then it looked staged. Here comes the wagon."
"About time." As the uniformed officers came in, Ray said, "Take these two pieces of shit and this kid in and book them on assault charges. These two also get aggravated and deadly weapons charges. This one is the Belowski kid from Polish Square - Paul is his first name I think. The other one's name is Kajenski, I believe. Start the report and leave the form on my desk and I'll take care of the details. Do me a favor - get this other kid a ride home to 10th Avenue?"
"Sure, Ray."
"Thanks." He looked at Shepherd approaching. "Christ, Jim, I've never seen anyone move so fast. Is that what that dark espresso does to you? Maybe I should start drinking it on a regular basis. Makes cappuccino look like a sissy drink."
"Seriously, Jim," Ben said, "where did you learn those skills?"
"I've been studying martial arts since I was a kid. The Army arranged some advanced training. Can we sit down? The adrenaline rush is over and sometimes you feel zonked out afterwards. I never did finish that espresso."
"That's a good idea. Betty, can we reheat these?"
"No, I'll give you fresh ones. No charge."
"Thanks. You're a peach."
"Yes, thank you," Shepherd said to the girl. She gave him a big smile.
"I think I'm jealous," Ray said.
"Has anyone seen Diefenbaker?" Ben asked.
"I haven't seen him since before those assholes interrupted our coffee," Ray said.
"If you're looking for your dog," Betty said, "he's in the back room. He looked so cute begging for a donut, I figured you wouldn't mind. He took it back there."
"Of course," Ray muttered, "the action's out here, so he's back there where it's safe. He's got the knack."
Betty brought out the fresh coffees and Ben's tea.
"Thank you," said the three men in perfect sync. "What the hell was that?" Ray asked. "We couldn't do that again if we tried." Fraser and Shepherd shook their heads in agreement, grinning.
"Now can we get back to the reason you're in our nice, peaceful city?" Ray inquired.
"Military personnel are disappearing."
"Big shit," Ray said. "Sounds like the usual liberty turning into the lost weekend. What else is new?"
"Really disappearing, Ray. For good, it seems. Not AWOL - gone. No trace. No turning up elsewhere."
"Here in Chicago?" Ben asked.
"The latest one. It's been the East Coast, so far. In Georgia, North Carolina, Virginia, D.C., Massachusetts, and New York. All over the last eight or nine months."
"All Army?" Ray asked.
"No. Air Force in Georgia, Massachusetts and D.C. -- Marines in North Carolina and Virginia -- Army in New York. That's when I got the call. Now a Naval officer here is missing."
"You'd think another base would have spotted one of the ID's by now."
"That's the weird part, Ray. The ID's and other required papers are always left behind in the quarters."
"Who's the Navy guy?"
"A Lt. Commander Cunningham. He was staying at the Training Center until some military finance conference next week."
"Hmmm," mumbled Ben.
"What is it, Benny?"
"Something I read at the Consulate some weeks ago. I think it was something about this conference. Canada's military people are attending, too. I better go back through the records this afternoon. Maybe something will trigger my memory."
"If the Dragon Lady doesn't find something else for you to do - rescue some Minister's wayward kitty cat from a tree, maybe."
"Jim, how come the Army seems to be the ones investigating when only one of the missing persons was Army?" Asked Ben.
"The other branches did local inquiries at first, but when it started to get more widespread and weird, they called us. The Army is the only branch that has a group like us to look into the odd stuff. The troubleshooters, they call us. The specialists. We have a lot of special skills. We used to be the anti-terrorist group until Delta took that over. The base commander here at the Training Center is a friend of mine, so they asked me to come. I met Doug Sherman when I was here doing some specialized dive training with the SEALs - he's now a full Commander and in charge over there. Anyway, that's about it. It's your town, Ray, what's the procedure you start with?"
"He missing for over forty-eight hours?"
"Yeah. The military usually waits at least three days before getting paranoid. The lost weekend thing you mentioned. Cunningham's been missing for going on six days."
"APB is the first thing. We'll need a full description."
Shepherd reached in his jacket and pulled out an envelope. "Everything you need is right here. Description, military photo, ID number, the works."
"Then it's back to the station we go. What time you got, Benny?"
"Just after noon, I better get over to the Consulate. I'll see what I can dig up on that piece I read about the upcoming conference. I'll let you know when I find something." He turned as he heard a whine behind him. "Well, there you are, Dief. Time to go, boy. Off to work. Gentlemen," he said, "until later. Come on, Dief." He headed for the door.
"See you later, Ben," said Jim.
"Yeah, see you, Benny." He looked at Shepherd and said, "Now you can get a look at how Chicago's finest earn their pay. After you," he said, holding the door open for Shepherd.
"Thank you kindly," said Shepherd, stepping out the door.
Vecchio was startled for a second. Then he just rolled his eyes heavenward, and muttered to himself, "Oh, no," and stepped out on the sidewalk, the door slowly closing behind him.
Benton Fraser was perusing the computer screen when he felt more than saw the presence of someone enter the room. He looked up and, realizing it was Inspector Margaret Thatcher, started to get to his feet.
"As you were, Constable," said the Inspector, giving Ben one of those piercing looks that he remembered Constable Turnbull saying that he thought could cut through stone. "I saw on my computer that someone was accessing the archives and I wondered who and why. What are you looking for, and why aren't you finishing the report on arrangements for the upcoming military finance conference?"
"The report is almost finished, sir," Ben said, trying not to catch the full effect of the woman's glare. "What I'm looking for here is something I read a couple of month's ago having something to do with this conference. Something I heard while having tea with Ray and a Captain Shepherd...."
"Vecchio," she interrupted, "I should have known. Surely the man hasn't become that civilized as to be drinking tea now."
"No, sir...cappuccino. As I was saying, sir - Ray's been assigned to help Captain Shepherd from U.S. Army Intelligence find a missing military officer. The officer was supposed to be attending the conference next week, and it made me recall something similar I read about someone from the conference."
"Well, what was it?" She asked, leaning over Fraser's shoulder to look at the screen, her brunette hair brushing his cheek.
"I'm still looking for it, sir," he said, a little uncomfortable at her proximity to him. "It doesn't seem to be in the archives and I've already looked in the file cabinets for the originals."
"Then that means that Turnbull must have it," she said, straightening up. "He's been assigned to enter the data into the database. Therefore, assuming this information exists and isn't a figment of your imagination - if the information is not in the database and not in the cabinet where originals go after they have been entered into the database, then that must mean he has yet to enter it - meaning said information is still in his possession. True?"
"A logical assumption, sir."
"Then I suggest you find Turnbull and obtain this information from him."
"Yes, Inspector."
"Oh, and when you see him - tell him I wish to know why this archiving job isn't already finished. Finding him at times is like searching for the Holy Grail. I swear the man hides from me. Carry on, Fraser." Not waiting for his reply, she pivoted around and left the room.
"Yes, sir," he replied to the empty doorway she had just passed through. The thought of Constable Turnbull hiding from Thatcher made Ben grin in spite of himself.
* * *
He found Renfield Turnbull in the copy room - drinking a coffee and waiting for the machine to finish its run. Ben noticed that he was standing well away from the door so as to be unnoticeable to someone passing the open door.
"Have a minute, Ren?" Ben asked.
Turnbull jumped. "Jesus, Fraser - don't ever sneak up on somebody like that. I thought you were somebody else."
"I can guess who. She's looking for you, by the way. Something about why the database archiving isn't finished yet. She also said she thinks you've been hiding from her."
Turnbull snorted a laugh, and said, "What sane man wouldn't? What did you need?"
Ben said, "If you've got a few minutes, I need to look through what you're archiving for a piece of information I read a couple of month's back about one of the attendees of next week's conference. It may be pertinent to a case to which Ray's been assigned - but may also have significance for us as well."
The copy machine picked that moment to cease its labors. Turnbull retrieved the copies and originals and said, "I'm done here. Let's go to my office and find what you need."
The two Mounties left the copy room and headed for Turnbull's office.
Elaine Besbriss saw Ray coming in the door of the precinct room and yelled, "Hey, Ray, there's a call for you or for someone named Shepherd. Line three."
"Thanks Elaine," Ray said. He reached the desk, grabbed the phone and stabbed button three. "Vecchio -- who's this?"
"This is Sgt. Davis, U.S. Army. Is Captain Shepherd with you?"
"Yeah, he's right here. Wait a second." He extended the phone receiver and said to Jim, "It's some army guy named Davis."
"That's one of my people." He took the receiver and said, "Yeah, Bob."
"Shep, we got a call from the Marines at Quantico. Somebody found the body of a guy with a Marine tattoo in Chesapeake Bay. The body was taken to a local morgue - I'm there now."
"Shit," said Shepherd. He motioned to Ray. "Get on another phone. They found a body in Maryland."
Ray grabbed the phone off the next desk and punched the third button. He waved an okay to Shepherd.
"Okay, Bob. Detective Vecchio's listening in. Continue."
"Right. Anyway, dental records in Washington show the body to be a Colonel Harrison Maxwell, USMC."
"That's one of the missing officers, all right."
"Yeah, Shep, but get this -- according to Quantico, this can't be Maxwell. The ID and description don't fit."
"What? How can that...okay, let's think a second. He's been missing for about what - three months? A body in the water that long wouldn't resemble much more than a bloated sack of dough. Are they sure about this?"
"They say it isn't him - not unless he grew four inches since he disappeared," Davis said. "What do you want to do, Shep?"
"Get the date off of the dental records. For the moment, I'm going to assume that the dental records are correct and that this is our missing guy. What was the cause of death? Does it look like an accident?"
"Not unless he was trying to swim the bay with a forty pound concrete block tied around his foot, it doesn't. Dumped there, obviously. The M.E. found a bullet in the chest - the local cops here sent the bullet to Washington and it turns out to be from a .44 Russian Makarov."
"Jesus," Ray said.
"What was that, Shep?" Asked Davis.
"Nothing, Bob. Follow up on those dental records and get back to me. Get hold of Bill Edwards and Woody. Tell them to bring the standard equipment up here right away - along with my auxiliary case. And Bob?"
"Yeah, Shep."
"Bring me my XR-9."
"Shit. Are you sure?"
"No, but I want it here just in case - the whole thing. I've got one of those feelings."
"Man, this day just gets fuckin' better and better. Okay, Shep. You've got it as soon as we can get it there."
"Tell the old man that this is no longer a code blue, it's now yellow - I repeat - yellow. Send Maxwell's ID and papers to Washington - I want to know if they're legit or not. I sent Cunningham's already. Check 'em all. After that, get Tony to step up the searches - I don't care what leverage they have to use - I want some of those others found. And you get your ass up here with Bill and Woody. You can bunk over at the Training Center. It won't be the first time you've been there. Tell Commander Sherman you're in my group Let me know when you've arrived."
"Gotcha. Take a day or so to get everyone and everything there."
"No later than thirty-six hours, old son."
"Okay, Shep. See ya."
"See you soon." He hung up the phone.
Vecchio just looked at him. "Who's the old man?"
"Colonel Fitzsimmons -- our boss. We do the legwork and he takes the credit."
"Christ. Sounds like Welsh." He looked at Shepherd with a worried expression. "Jim?" He asked.
"Yeah?"
"Russians?"
"Ray, my friend," said Shepherd, "things have definitely gotten more interesting."
"Shit," Ray said. "This kind of interesting I need like another hole in my ass."
Shepherd grinned and said, "I don't even want to know. What now, oh wiseass detective?"
"I think we'd better go over to the Consulate and see Benny."
"Some times I don't know you,
You're like someone else.
But that's all right,
I'm a stranger here myself."
Joe Cocker's
"Out of the Blue"
Robbie Robertson
In one of Chicago's historical districts stands an almost one hundred year old, scaled-down replica of an English castle. This now historical relic had been built around the turn of the century for a wealthy shipping magnate. It was authentic in the use of cut granite stones in its construction and in its detail such as towers in all four corners of the structure - complete with stone crenelations - and a genuine iron portcullis at the castle entrance. The only thing missing was a moat, but without the availability of a running stream to keep the water in a moat clean, moats are basically stagnant water which, due to algae growth, tend to turn a disgusting green color in hot weather and give off a horrendous odor. Due to this and the fact that said moats are also natural breeding grounds for mosquitoes, a moat had never been considered.
On October 29, 1929, a date now remembered as Black Tuesday, the shipping magnate happened to be in New York visiting the Wall Street brokerage firm that handled his investments. Two things plummeted that day in history. The first was the Stock Market. When the magnate realized he was now penniless, the second thing to plummet that day was the magnate - from a tenth floor window - his hands around his broker's throat according to witnesses.
The magnate left no heirs, so the property was eventually seized by the city of Chicago for nonpayment of taxes. In 1938, the Roman Catholic Diocese, for the amount of the tax owed plus interest, purchased the castle from the city -- their plan being to renovate and use the structure as a church for their newly established parish honoring St. Francis of Assisi.
The current pastor of St. Francis Church was Monsignor Thomas O'Reilly. The pastor smiled as he took his daily constitutional around the neighborhood. He truly loved this parish and his parishioners. He had been worried when the letter arrived from the diocese two weeks before - transferring his assistant pastor, Father Harris, to a new parish in Springfield, the state capital. He was, of course, happy for Jack Harris, and had wished him well when he had left a week earlier, but as he himself was now sixty-four years of age, and St. Francis being a large parish, Father O'Reilly needed another assistant in a hurry. His prayers had been seemingly answered when another letter had arrived three days earlier announcing the arrival of Father Russell Smythe to be the new assistant pastor.
The Lord works in mysterious ways, Father O'Reilly quoted to himself. He wondered how Father Smythe was settling in as he'd only arrived early that morning. Tom O'Reilly knew a major transfer like this was a big shock, so figured he'd give the much younger man time to unpack and unwind before they sat down to discuss the new assistant's duties. He walked on....
* * *
The object of Tom O'Reilly's thoughts had unpacked his large case, but was anything but relaxed.
"Idiot!" Father Smythe screamed into the phone, "I told you not to call me here, that I'd call you from a public phone. Have you forgotten everything your instructors taught you?"
"No, Misha, no - but this is important."
"Don't call me that, Peter, you must refer to me as Father Smythe. Now what is so damned important."
"Father, one of the bodies has been recovered."
"Shit!" exclaimed Smythe. "Which one?"
"The Marine from Virginia. Maxwell."
"That one was over three months ago - not good, but not yet an emergency."
"Yes, Father, but there is an Army Captain in Chicago looking for the Navy man, Cunningham. This cannot be good news, comrade."
"No, it's not. And don't say comrade over the phone, idiot. Are you sure the line is not tapped?"
"It scanned clean...Father."
"All right. You disposed of the body of the priest?"
"There was a slight....hitch I think the word is, but..."
"What kind of hitch, you fool?"
"One of our men was driving the priest's auto to the site we selected to dispose of both the auto and the body. It was foggy, and a semi driving the opposite way was partly in our man's lane. The car went off the road through a bridge guardrail, crashed on the road below and burned. Our man is dead and both bodies burned beyond recognition. How will they identify the body as the priest? I believe you will be safe enough for long enough, don't you?"
"I don't like this, Peter. Loose ends I do not like. They have a tendency to fray at the wrong time. Do you not remember Tehran?"
"That was not our fault, Misha! That was the Americans' fault. The hated Americans and their allies the Canadians. They will pay.... You will make them."
"Yes, Peter. I will pay them back -- but not for Tehran. To Hell with Tehran and the Ayatollah. The Americans and their allies will pay for what they took from me in Baghdad. Find out for me where this Army man is staying. I may have to buy myself time."
"Yes, Mish...I mean Father. As soon as possible."
"Goodbye, Peter. I will call you tonight at the scheduled time." He hung up the phone without waiting for a reply.
He heard the creak of the door at the bottom of the landing. "Monsignor," he called, "Is that you? Did you have a nice walk?" He walked out to the top of the stairs and looked down at the upcoming Monsignor.
"Yes, my son, a nice walk," said Father O'Reilly. "Good for the blood pressure at my age. Settling in all right, then, are you?"
"Yes, Father. Almost finished. I feel at home already."
"Good. And it's Tom when no one else is about, Russell. I'm going to my office now. Relax. Continue to settle in. We'll start discussing your duties after dinner. I'll see you later, Russell."
"Thanks, Fath...I mean Tom. See you later."
When he was sure the older man had gone to his office in the other end of the wing, Smythe opened a small case and lifted a false divider. He first took out a small metal kit, then reached again into the case and retrieved his .44 Makarov pistol. He then opened the metal cleaning kit and proceeded to methodically clean the weapon as he did every day.
"Here's something, Ben," said Turnbull, looking over at Ben, who was sitting with a pile of papers and news clippings in his lap. The pile Ben sorted through was almost as large as the pile Turnbull was going through.
"What is it?" Asked Ben.
"It's a news clip about the upcoming conference. It's dated almost five months ago and has the probable list of attendees."
"That's not the piece I'm looking for, but leave it out." Fraser thought for a second. "Look down the names and read me the Canadians."
"General McIntire, Air Force; Harold Knutton, Deputy Defense Secretary; Colonel Ferguson, Army..."
"Wait," Ben said. "Ferguson...what's the first name?"
"Ambrose."
"That sounds so familiar...." Ben thought for a moment. "Do you have a current list of the attendees as now scheduled?"
"Sure." Turnbull opened his lower desk drawer where his current files were. "Right here."
"Is Ferguson still on it?"
Turnbull scanned down the list. "No, his name's not here. Perhaps he's ill and can't attend."
"Ill, or...." It suddenly hit him. "An obituary!" Exclaimed Ben. "That's what I saw. There was a write-up attached to it mentioning the conference. Let's find that obituary, quick!"
* * *
It took the two men another ten minutes to find the papers.
"Here, I've got it. Let's see -- he was from Hamilton, Ontario. That's not that far from Niagara, which is right opposite Buffalo, New York. One of Shepherd's missing men - the army officer - was from New York. I wonder...."
"One of whose men?"
"Captain Shepherd, U.S. Army. A case Ray was just assigned to assist in. Do me a favor? There's no cause of death listed. Can you find out the details on Ferguson's death? Specifically the actual cause. If you have to, get the Inspector to pull some strings."
Turnbull blanched at the mention of Thatcher. "But, Ben...."
"Tell her the request is from me. I don't have time to explain - tell her I believe this involves the security of the conference and those attending. Can I take that current list of names?"
"Sure - it's a copy."
"Thank you kindly. I have to go see Ray and Shepherd. Get on that fast, will you?"
"All right."
"See you later, Ren," Ben said as he hurried out the door.
Dr. Jacob Steiner had never seen a body burned to such a degree. The skin had a blackened, crispy texture like a piece of chicken that had been barbecued too close to a cookfire. This body was burned to a higher degree than that of the car's driver, which the doctor had worked on first. According to the report, the car had swerved to avoid a truck that was partly on the wrong side of the road as foggy conditions had reduced visibility to almost nil. The driver of the car had undoubtedly been driving too fast under the circumstances. After swerving, the driver had been unable to regain control of the vehicle, which had ripped through an overpass guardrail and had plunged twenty feet downward, impacting nose first into the road beneath. The doctor's best guess was that the impact had ruptured the fuel tank and the gasoline had poured into the car's interior - eventually reaching the hot engine through the also ruptured floor panels, igniting the cars interior and the victims inside. Not a pleasant way to die, thought the fifty-five year old medical examiner.
The doctor opened the body cavity and took sections of various organs for the required tests. He stopped for a minute after taking a section of lung. The interior did not resemble a lung that had inhaled hot gasses, as did the lung section removed from the driver. Curious, the doctor checked the bronchial tubes. They too, looked like normal tissue - without the damage the doctor would expect to find in a man who had burned to death in a vehicle fire. To the doctor's eyes, this man had not burned to death. Perhaps the man had died of a heart seizure incurred as a result of the crash. He would check the heart next.
This was curious as well, thought the doctor. The heart was quite flaccid, not firm, as the muscle normally would be. Feeling it very carefully, Steiner found a large puncture wound. Strange, as there had been no ribs broken. Checking further, he found another large puncture in the rear of the heart. Something had gone all the way through. He pulled his hands from the body cavity for a moment, then began to examine the chest and diaphragm area. There! A hole in the chest wall. Taking his time, the diligent examiner eventually found a bullet lodged near the spine. It was a steel-jacketed bullet of a very large caliber. He'd have to send it off to the police lab for analysis.
A gold wristwatch, blackened from the fire, had been found on the left wrist and removed from the body. An inscription was discovered on the back plate, which one of the women in forensics managed to clean up enough to read. It was inscribed:
To Rev. John M. Harris on
Receiving his Holy Orders.
July 7, 1974
Love, Mother & Dad.
Benton Fraser walked at a fast pace along the sidewalk as he headed to the CPD station to find Ray and Shepherd. He was turning a corner, when he saw a green blur go by. Suddenly, with a horrendous squeal of tires and brakes, the green, 1971 Riviera pivoted on its front wheels and swung around in a 180-degree turn and onto the other side of the street like a scythe cutting wheat in a field.
Ray started yelling out of the driver's window, "Benny! Get in the car, quick. We've got some news for you."
Jim Shepherd started to get out of the front passenger seat. Ben said, "Stay put, Jim. I'll get in back."
As soon as Ben was in, and the door was closed, Ray hit the accelerator and took off like a rocket.
"Jesus, Ray," said Shepherd; "you must have taken five thousand miles off of those tires when you did that one-eighty. Where the hell did you learn to drive?"
"Go-cart track down at the old waterfront park in the summer. I think I was about eight years old. Hey, Benny, guess what? Like things weren't bad enough, now we got Ruskies."
"I beg your pardon? You've got what?" Ben asked.
"We...we, Benny. The three of us. The Russians are coming. Wasn't that a movie?"
"Yeah, Ray, but the movie was a comedy," said Jim. He turned to Ben and said," A body was recovered in Maryland that was shot in the chest with a .44 Russian Makarov pistol. The body had been in the water for over three months, but from dental records, it's a ninety-nine percent certainty that the body is that of Marine Colonel Harrison Maxwell, from Quantico, Virginia."
Ben pulled the copy of Turnbull's list out of his pocket along with the news clipping with the original set of names. He scanned down the clipping, then the revised list and said to the two men in front, "He was, and still is scheduled to be at the conference next week. How can this be when he's been missing for this length of time? The list has been revised in the last two weeks and yet Maxwell is still on it. How?"
"Only one thing to explain it, old son," said Shepherd. "Someone else has been standing in for Maxwell. It's the only thing I can come up with to explain the ID's left behind at the scenes. The Maxwell found in Chesapeake Bay, whom we believe to be the real Maxwell, is not the Maxwell known to the Marine base at Quantico. Roughly figuring the time the body is estimated to have been in the water, Maxwell would have been killed just a couple of days before he was scheduled to show up at Quantico. No one at Quantico ever knew Maxwell or had ever seen him before, so as long as someone had an ID showing he was Col. Harrison Maxwell, who'd question it? Add to that the fact that Maxwell was a high-ranking officer, and you cut down to a scant few the number of persons who would actually have to interact with him. Maxwell was a widower at a young age and never remarried, and his parents were both deceased, so there was no family to complicate the impersonation. On the way over here I was thinking about what these missing officers all have in common. One thing is that they are all loners. No immediate families to complicate a really good impersonator."
Ray touched the brakes and swerved around a kid running across the road. "Goddamn jaywalkers," he said.
Ben shook his head. Turning back to Shepherd, he said, "That may not be the only thing they have in common. They're all loners and they're all or were all scheduled for this conference. That's two commonalities already. We need to find out if there's another common denominator. That reminds me of why I was coming to see you. We had a Canadian Army officer scheduled to attend the conference, but the thing I was trying to remember earlier today was an obituary about ten weeks ago for this same Colonel Ambrose Ferguson. The cause of death wasn't listed, so I've asked Constable Turnbull to track that information down for me. I believe that there may be a link to your missing people. Ferguson was from Hamilton, Ontario, which is not far from Niagara, Ontario -- right across the falls from Buffalo, New York."
"Shit!" Exclaimed Jim. "Frank Collins, the Army's missing Major, is from Buffalo. I'll give you odds that your Canadian Colonel was murdered. The question is -- why didn't that make the headlines? Unless the death was made to look accidental in such a way that no one bothered to look for another cause of death. I'm also willing to bet money that we find a .44 Makarov slug in each one of these guys."
"Do you have any way of correlating the records of all the former and the current attendees and see if there's anything else they have in common, if anything?"
"Bill Edwards could handle it, but those guys won't be here much before late tomorrow or the next morning. Ray, is there anyone at CPD that's real good with computers? I mean a real hacker type. Someone who can tie into networks that they don't belong in?"
"Sharon down in Records might be able to do it. She's sort of the resident nerd."
"Gee, Ray," said Ben. "I know who Sharon is. Isn't she kind of sweet on you?"
"Oh Jesus, Benny, don't even think that," Ray said. "I've got enough troubles, and girls with glasses an inch thick don't do anything for me, if you know what I mean".
"Well, Ray, you might have to sweet talk her for what we need," said Shepherd.
"You guys don't mean it!"
"Seriously, Ray," said Shepherd, "if she can get into the networks, I can get her the rest of the way through. I've got the codes to get in - I just don't have access from here until Edwards gets here. Sounds like it's worth a shot. And who knows, Ray? You might get lucky."
"Please, Lord," said Ray, pulling up in front of the station. "Take me now?"
"Constable Fraser asked you to do this?" Asked Inspector Thatcher, giving Constable Renfield Turnbull the piercing look a cat gives a mouse before swatting it with a clawed paw.
"Yes, sir," said the Constable, trying not to flinch. "He believes the dead officer, Ferguson, is connected in some way to the case that the local police are assisting the U.S. Army with. He seemed to feel this could affect the security of next week's conference. He asked me to ask for your help if necessary - and to tell you that this was his request, sir."
"So what seems to be the problem?"
"There's some sort of security lock on this man's file. The police in Hamilton say that any inquiries are supposed to go through the Canadian Army or the Defense Ministry."
"Really," said Thatcher with a tone that seemed to chill the room. She thought for a moment, and said, "Obviously we're not talking death by natural causes. Perhaps Fraser is on to something here. Give me everything you have, Turnbull. I know a deputy minister or two. I'm going to make some phone calls. We are just as much an important entity as the Army or Defense Ministry. We are also responsible for security for the conference that Canadian military and government officials are attending. This is information we may very well need, and damn it, we will have it. That will be all for now, Constable."
Turnbull handed over the paperwork and said, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." He started to leave Thatcher's office, getting as far as the door.
"Just one more thing, Turnbull," said the Inspector.
"Sir?"
"Is Fraser returning here to the Consulate today?"
"I assume so, sir. Why?"
"Because he left that four-legged beast here, and it's eating anything edible that isn't nailed down. If you have any influence with the animal, put it in Fraser's office or in one of the unused conference rooms."
"Yes, sir," he said, turning and hurrying out the door before she could say anything more. He figured he'd better find Diefenbaker fast, before the wolf got under Thatcher's skin any further. Now if I were the wolf, he thought, where would I be? He decided to check the cafeteria first.
"This is an excellent Irish stew, Agnes," said Father Smythe.
"Thank you, sir," said Agnes Dolan. She pronounced the sir as 'sor' in that wonderful brogue that Father O'Reilly had always loved. The same accent his mother had. She set a loaf of fresh bread on the table and said, "I'm glad you enjoy it."
"Agnes has been with me for almost ten years," said O'Reilly. "She was a good friend to my mother, and when Mother passed on, Agnes started working for me. She comes in to cook and clean every day except Sunday. She keeps the Sabbath holy as the Lord's commandment says. She cooks an extra dinner and puts it in the freezer. All we have to do on Sunday is heat it up. She's a wonder, is our Agnes."
"She is that," said Smythe, enjoying the food.
Agnes had gone back into the kitchen. Father O'Reilly paused in his eating for a moment and said, "What are your after dinner plans, Russell?"
"Well, Tom, I thought I'd take a drive and pick up some essentials I need that got left behind in my moving here. You know - men's toiletries and the like. At the same time I'll have a chance to take a look at the parish. Get a feel for the area."
"Good. Tomorrow you can start doing afternoon confessions. That's from 4:00 PM to 5:00 PM. We run four masses on weekends. You can do the 5:00 PM Saturday and Sunday masses this weekend, and I will take the 9:00 AM and the 11:00 AM Sunday masses. We can work the rest of the routine out as we go."
"That's fine, Tom. I'll look forward to it."
"Good," said Father O'Reilly. "Now let us get back to enjoying this fine stew."
* * *
An hour later, Smythe pulled up to a phone booth in a drug store parking lot. The number was answered on the third ring.
"Yes?" Asked the voice.
"Is this the Smithsonian?" Smythe asked.
"No, it isn't. You're the fourth person to ask today," the voice said, giving the correct response.
"Peter, what did you find out?"
"The army man, Shepherd, is staying at the Vista Hotel on Elm -- about four streets away from the Chicago Police Department. His room number is 202."
"Excellent, Peter. I will call you again tomorrow. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Father."
Smythe returned to his car and drove off.
"What the hell do you want, Vecchio?" Asked Sharon Cerullo in the CPD records department.
"Jeez," said Ray, "all I do is walk over to your desk and...."
"And you want something as always," said Sharon, looking at him over the top of her glasses. "I've got plenty to do without you giving me more to do. You want something special, get the Lieutenant to send down a request."
"Oh, c'mon, Sharon. Cut me some slack. It isn't just for me, it's for Captain Shepherd, here, from Army Intelligence."
She looked at Ray for a second. Then seeing Ben, she gave him a smile and turned to Shepherd. "What is it you need, Captain?"
"How often do you get to hack into the military databases, Officer Cerullo?"
"Sharon. Why do you need to hack in, Captain? Why don't you just get the info you need from your own people?"
"Because the closer you are to secured information, the more red tape you have to cut through to get access," said Shepherd, shaking his head. "I've got a guy in my group that normally does this, but he won't be here until sometime tomorrow. If you can hack your way into MilNet, I have codes to get us into the secure military records and combat assignments. What I want to do is pull that information for everyone on this list of names, and then correlate the data. What we're looking for is what these people have in common. Then we run that information against this other list of people attending the conference next week and see how many matches we get. Can you help us?"
"How important is this, Captain?"
"Very. We've got military people being killed and this information may give us a jump on stopping more killings. I'm sure Lt. Welsh would give your efforts his blessing, it's just that we don't have time to go through channels."
"My Dad was in the army. I'd hate to think of someone like him being killed for some unknown reason. Okay, I'll help you guys. I have an analysis program I can modify to correlate the data. Once we get in, it won't take long to pull the data you want. It's going to take a lot longer to run the analysis. Maybe all night, which means I'll have to stay late. You guys are going to owe me for this. Especially you, Vecchio."
"Okay, Sharon, okay," said Ray. "We owe you. I owe you. How can we repay you, Goddess of Data?"
"I'll think of something. Dinner and dancing might be a possibility." She smiled up at Ray and gave him a very penetrating stare. "I can think of a few possibilities."
"I'll bet she can," Ben muttered to Shepherd. They both smiled as they watched the suddenly nervous Ray.
Bishop Alexander Lowe was working on his weekly sermon when he heard a knock on the door.
"Who is it?" He asked.
"Father Cabral, your Excellency."
"Come in, Louis," said the Bishop.
Father Cabral entered the office and said, "There's a police officer on the phone, Alex. He asked to speak to the head of the diocese. It's on line two."
"Thank you, Louis. I'd be glad to take the call. Would you mind?" He asked, motioning for the priest to go about his business. Father Cabral nodded and said, "Of course not, Alex. Thank you." He turned and left the office, closing the door behind him. The Bishop pushed the button for the second line and picked up the receiver.
"This is Bishop Lowe," he said into the phone. "How can I help you?"
"Bishop, this is Officer Gant at the Aurora Police Department. There was an automobile accident here the day before yesterday. Two dead bodies were recovered from the burned wreck. The bodies in the car were burned very badly, but we believe one of them to be that of Father John M. Harris. We found an inscribed wristwatch on the body with that name and mentioning Holy Orders and a date of July 7, 1974. I figured Holy Orders being a sacrament meant Roman Catholic, so I figured I'd try this diocese first to see if he's a local priest and not an out-of-stater. We'd like to contact any family for arrangements and so forth. Can you help us?"
"Yes, I'd be glad to be of help. I think he is with our diocese, the name does sound familiar, but if not, I'll have the other dioceses contacted. As soon as I have any information for you, I will call you."
"Thank you, Bishop Lowe, I appreciate the help, and if he is one of yours, please accept our condolences from the department."
"Thank you, my son. That is appreciated. I will be in touch. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Bishop, and thanks again," said the officer who then hung up.
The Bishop hung up the telephone, got up from behind his solid cherry desk, and went across the hall to Father Cabral's office. The door was open, so he knocked on the frame.
Father Cabral started to get to his feet, but the Bishop waved him back into his chair, then sat in the other office chair. "Louis, I've got something very important for you to look up...."
Jim Shepherd was attempting to stir a cup of coffee in the CPD lounge, but from what Ray Vecchio could see, not having much luck.
"Good coffee, huh, Jim?" Asked Ray.
"Are you sure this is coffee, Ray?" Shepherd asked. "I've stirred thinner gasket compound than this stuff."
"Yeah, it's great stuff. Helps keep our arteries clogged. Probably why Welsh is always ready to explode. Whatcha reading in the paper, Benny?"
"There's an article about a man admitted to the local mental hospital who was found running down the street naked, screaming about seeing dragons everywhere and saying 'they' were after him."
"Jesus," said Ray, "is that the local paper or the National Inquirer? You know, 'Inquiring mindless want to know.'"
"No, it's the Tribune," Ben said.
Ray started laughing. "Hey, maybe it's Turnbull. Didn't you say Thatcher's been on his case lately? Maybe the Dragon Lady got to him so bad he finally snapped!"
Ben just gave him a sardonic look and said, "I wish you wouldn't call the Inspector that, Ray. She isn't that bad, and she's got a tough job to do. Sometimes she just seems to be very demanding, that's all."
"Okay, Benny, whatever you say. You know me."
A muffled trilling was heard in the room.
"Hey, that's my phone, isn't it?" Asked Ray. He went over to the coat rack where he had hung up his jacket, removed the phone from the inside pocket, and flipped it open. "Vecchio," he said into it.
"This is Margaret Thatcher," said the voice, "Is Fraser with you?"
"Uh, yeah, Inspector, he's right here. Hang on." He handed the phone to Ben, and said, "The devil has big ears."
Fraser looked at him and shook his head. "Yes, Inspector," he said into the phone.
"Fraser, I've got some information for you about that Colonel Ferguson from Hamilton. They didn't want to give us the information, but I found a sympathetic ear at the Ministry who got us the information. Ferguson was found in his game room shot through the heart. The recovered bullet was a .44 Russian Makarov. Is that what you were expecting to find?"
"At this point, sir, we were - or at least we're not surprised."
"Constable, I don't like the fact that a Russian weapon is involved. In your opinion, is this going to affect next week's conference?"
"It's quite possible, sir. We're hoping that some computer analysis the CPD is doing will shed some light on this."
"Keep me informed, Fraser. I don't want to be last one in the Consulate to know."
"No, sir -- I mean yes, sir. When we know, you'll know."
"Carry on, Fraser." She hung up.
"Yes, sir," he said into the now disconnected phone. He passed on the information to Ray and Shepherd.
"Well, I guess we shouldn't be surprised," said Shepherd. "Now I'm really willing to bet we find Collins from Buffalo with one of those Russian slugs in him. I guess we can't do much until we get that analysis. Maybe we should call it a day until we hear."
"That's probably a good idea," said Ray. "We probably should get what sleep we can. Sharon will call when she's got something for us."
"I think she's already got something for you, Ray," said Jim.
"Please. I'm going to owe her a favor the size of Lake Michigan, don't get me thinking about it."
"Okay, okay," said Shepherd. "Just kidding, Ray, don't have a stroke."
"Too late for that, drinking this rear axle grease," said Ray.
Ben interrupted, and said, "I think we could all use some sleep. Who knows when we'll get another chance for a while?"
"I agree, Ben," said Shepherd. "I have the feeling tomorrow's going to be a long day."
The black car was on the opposite side of the street from the station and about a half-block away. Smythe watched the three men come out.
A Mountie, he thought to himself, impressing Ben's features in his mind. Interesting. The Canadians are obviously involved now. He looked at the other two. The expensive suit certainly wasn't army, so that left the man wearing the leather jacket. That must be Shepherd from Army Intelligence.
"Need a ride, Benny?" He heard the suit ask the Mountie. Now he had a first name.
"No thank you, Ray," said Ben, "I'll walk." Now Smythe had a second name.
"Okay, 'night then, Benny," said Ray.
"Yes, goodnight, Ben," said the army officer.
"Goodnight, Ray...goodnight, Jim," said the Mountie. Now Smythe had the third name -- Jim. Then it would be Captain James Shepherd, U.S. Army Intelligence.
The Mountie was walking up the street, while the other two were getting in a green Buick facing down the street. Smythe decided to follow the car, as it was easier to follow a car without being obvious than to try to follow someone walking.
The Buick pulled away from the curb. Smythe waited until it was past his position before starting the Dodge. He slowly did a U-turn without lights and proceeded to follow the other car.
Ben entered the Consulate and went directly to his office. Opening the door, he heard Dief whining and then saw the wolf. Dief sat there giving Fraser an indignant look.
"Don't give me that look, Dief," Ben said, "I didn't lock you in here." He wondered who had.
The wolf just looked at him, tongue hanging out, panting.
"C'mon, boy. We'll get you home, get you some food and water, and then we'll get some shut-eye. Let's go."
They walked down the hall towards the exit, Dief leading the way.
"Your mother cried
Said she told you so,
But you touched the devil
And couldn't let go.
No one controls the Outlaw."
"The Outlaw Blues"
N. Geraldo / M. Grombacher
Smythe slowed the car to a stop, as the Buick slowed down on Elm until it was in front of a fairly nondescript hotel. He could just read the word "Vist" on the sign out front. An unkempt looking shrub was blocking the rest of the sign. This would be the Vista Hotel where Shepherd was staying.
The army man exited the car, and waved to the driver as the car pulled away. He then entered the building.
Smythe waited a few minutes then saw a light go on in a room on the second floor facing the street. That would be 202, thought Smythe. Smart man to take a room on the street side. He noticed no fire escape, so there would be no accessing the window from outside. Very smart man, this Army Captain.
He smiled to himself and slowly drove off down the street, thinking, Soon.
Monsignor O'Reilly picked up the ringing phone. "Hello," he said.
"Tom, this is Alex Lowe."
"Your Excellency...Alex. It's been too long. How are you?"
"I'm well, Tom -- thank you. I wanted to call to offer my condolences. I understand Father Harris was your Assistant Pastor. When is the service?"
"Condolences? Service? Father Harris? What are you talking about, Alex?"
"My God, man," said the Bishop, "haven't you heard? You weren't notified?"
"Heard what, Alex? Spit it out, man!"
"Father Harris was found dead in an auto accident in Aurora two days ago."
"Dear God in Heaven, no! This is the first I've heard of it."
"I would have thought you'd have called us when you hadn't heard from him for a few days," said the Bishop, "or was he taking time off?"
"You'd know that better than I, Alex," said O'Reilly. "After all, you transferred him. When was he supposed to start at St. Benedict's?"
"I transferred him? Nonsense. I did no such thing - especially to St. Benedict's - they have four priests now and the Assistant Pastor has only been there four months."
"So you never sent him a letter transferring him to Springfield?"
"No," said Lowe.
"And what about the letter I received informing me that Father Smythe was being transferred here as Jack's replacement?" Asked O'Reilly.
"Who? Smythe? Never heard of anyone by that name. I transferred no one into or out of your parish."
"Mary, mother of Christ. What the hell is going on here? Alex, this is a great shock. I need some time to think. Let me call you back tomorrow. We can talk about a service then."
"Of course, Tom. Had I but known you weren't notified, I never would have dropped it on you like that. Call me when you're up to it. If I can do anything, don't hesitate."
"Thank you, Alex. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Tom," said Lowe, and hung up.
Tom O'Reilly slowly hung up the phone. Father Russell Smythe, or whoever the hell he was, had a lot of explaining to do.
Corporal Sherry Michaels of the Army's Central Intelligence Division was finishing up a report, when the telephone started its two-tone beeping. Thinking that sometimes the beeping was just as irritating as the old bell ringers were, Sherry picked up the phone. "CID," she said.
"Corporal Michaels, I have an FBI agent on the line. He says it's an intelligence matter. Should I transfer him?"
"Yes, go ahead," she said. She heard a momentary click as the transfer was made. "This is Corporal Michaels, CID. How can I help you?"
"Corporal, this is Agent Nichols of the FBI. We wanted to let you people know that another .44 Makarov bullet has turned up. It was taken from the body of a Father John M. Harris, a Roman Catholic priest. According to the diocese, he's the Assistant Pastor of St. Francis Church in Chicago. Granted, he's not military, but it could be connected."
"I'll pass that on to our operatives, Agent Nichols. Thank you for calling, and for the information."
"You're welcome," said Nichols. "If we get anything else, we'll let you know. Goodbye."
"Thanks. Goodbye." Sherry hung up. She looked up Bob Davis' cell phone number and picked up the blue phone that was tied into the cell system. She dialed the number and waited.
"Davis," she heard on the other end.
"Bob, this is Sherry. I have some info for you, but we should go through the scrambler. I'm going to scramble mode now." She punched the code for that day, 2975, into the keypad, and waited for the shrill, feedback-type noise to subside, then asked, "Are you there, Bob?"
"Right here, Sher, go ahead."
Sherry proceeded to relay the information she had received from Agent Nichols to Davis, feeling secure that the scrambled information was unreadable.
The truth of the matter was that the information would indeed have been secure if another line hadn't been patched into Sherry's line under the raised floor allowing the information to be obtained before it entered the state-of-the-art scrambler system. From Sherry's communications area, this line ran under the floor of two other offices, and then down one floor to the office of Lt. Victor Zelasko, the CID junior security officer, where the intercepted communications were recorded.
The tap on Sherry's line would never be discovered as long as Zelasko was in charge of sweeping the room for phone taps. The army had never discovered Victor's phony military background. The KGB provided such a good one - complete with perfect documents.
Zelasko was Russian in his heart, even if he had been born in the United States. His parents were Russian deep cover agents placed in the U.S. back in the 1950's in the event that Russia and the U.S. ever went to war. Victor had been born a year later. Ed and Sylvia Zelasko had lived in the U.S. for so long and loved the country, that they now considered themselves to be Americans, but Victor had gone to Mother Russia for a student trip and had been recruited by the KGB. He was put in touch with a communist faction in North Dakota and learned how to be a good agent and was discovered to have a keen mind.
When an opening in Army Intelligence became available, Victor, with his perfect, completely fabricated military background got the job. Once he had worked his way into a position where he could be of use to his masters, the new KGB agent was officially activated and given the code name - Peter.
"The pockets of our greatcoats full of barley---
No kitchens on the run, no striking camp---
We moved quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp.
A people, hardly marching---on the hike---
We found new tactics happening each day:
We'd cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until on Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed, soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August the barley grew up out of the grave."
"Requiem For The Croppies"
Seamus Heaney b. 1939
Smythe entered the foyer, closing the door behind him. He threw the lockbolts and before he could turn around, heard a voice say, "Who are you?"
Startled for a moment, he slowly turned to see Father O'Reilly standing on the stairs, three steps up from the landing. He smiled up at the old priest and said, "It's me, Monsignor. Russell Smythe. Don't you recognize me?"
"Yes, I recognize you," said O'Reilly. "I recognize you as a man claiming to be a Father Russell Smythe who was supposedly assigned here as Assistant Pastor by the Roman Catholic Diocese. Russell Smythe may very well be your name. You may even be a priest, though I doubt it. The one thing that I am very sure of, however, is that the diocese did not send you here. I've spoken to them and they've never heard of you."
"You know very well that can't be, Father," said Smythe. "You received a letter from the diocese informing you of my coming." He was trying to think fast.
"The diocese never sent any such letter. You did. They also said that they never transferred Father Harris. Jack Harris is dead. His body was found burned in an automobile crash and the diocese was notified. Knowing nothing about any transfer, they called me to offer their condolences and to ask me to offer a special mass for him."
Shit, thought Smythe. The body of the priest should not have been identified this soon. The idiot who was to dispose of the body obviously missed something. Of course, the man had already paid the price for his carelessness, losing his life in the same crash. What was done, was done. Smythe now had a new problem to deal with -- and there was no time like the present. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out his pistol.
"You're absolutely right, Father," admitted Smythe, pointing the Makarov in O'Reilly's general direction. "I'm not a priest. I'm also not Russell Smythe. My name is Petrovsky. My coming here served two purposes. I needed a cover -- a place to hide, if you will, outside of the mainstream of Chicago. I also owed a debt to the Harris family. Father Harris' death was unfortunate in one respect. I held no animosity toward Jack Harris. His father, Col. Michael Harris, was the man to whom my debt was to be paid. However, Col. Harris died as the result of a fatal heart attack two years ago, so I paid my debt to the son, in his father's stead. This presented me the opportunity to establish a cover in a place where no one would look for me. Who would suspect a priest? Like hiding a book in a library, I can hide in plain sight of all. So far, this has worked out very well."
"What is this debt to which you keep referring?" Demanded the Monsignor.
"Let us go into the study, Father, where we can discuss this in more comfort. After you," he said, waving the barrel of the pistol in the direction of the study.
Entering the study, Petrovsky waved the gun towards a plush chair near a bookcase. "Sit there, Father, please." Once the old priest was seated, Petrovsky walked over to the small, oaken liquor cabinet on the opposite side of the room and turned two glasses right side up. He then snapped the seal on an old bottle of Irish whiskey, opened the bottle and poured three fingers' worth into each glass. He took one glass over and set it on the small end table next to the priest's chair. "I haven't had this particular brand in years, Father, but I remember it well. Do you?"
"Should I?" Asked O'Reilly.
"Yes, you should," said Petrovsky, taking a slow sip and letting the fine whiskey lay on his tongue for a moment before letting it slide grandly down his throat. "As would your father, and his father. You're Thomas Patrick O'Reilly. Your father was Patrick Sean O'Reilly and his father was Sean Thomas O'Reilly. Patrick and Sean -- ex patriots -- eventually expatriates. Ha! I love the plays-on-words in the English language. Russian does not provide such. Where was I? Oh, yes -- Patrick and Sean. Between the two, enough British blood was spilled to fill the vats at any distillery. There were more Crown Warrants offered for those two men than any dozen others in the district. The IRA was in their blood -- as it is in yours. Cowards they were not, but eventually still had to flee the country for America. Settling in Boston, they eventually sent for your mother, and you and your sister, Deirdre. You didn't want to leave at first, Tom. You had become a lieutenant in the IRA. Then the records of you get a little sloppy. You eventually turn up here, in America, and you become a priest. That rings very loud to me, Thomas. Guilt, rings the bell. Or should I say peals the bell. Yes, I think peal is more appropriate. A funereal pealing, or in another play-on-words, should I say, a funeral pealing. Pealing, but not appealing, eh?"
He took another sip. "What happened, Thomas? What turned you from the cause? What suddenly made you lay down your patriotism and your gun, and come to America and take up the Bible and cassock?"
Monsignor O'Reilly looked up at him in horror. "Have you ever killed a child, Smythe, or Petrovsky, or whatever your name is? I believe you've killed many people, but a child? A fifteen year old boy. Not an infant, granted, but still a child. A child who would not live to become an adult. Taken from this world before the good Lord intended it. A Protestant youth that had seen his brother die and took up the brother's cause. He came at me with a knife, and I reacted before I could think. I had a shotgun loaded with buckshot in my hands. The boy caught the blast in the face and neck -- it literally tore his head from his body. To this day I can't look in the mirror without seeing the face of this young man whose life I destroyed. I couldn't live with myself. I tried to commit suicide, but something stopped me. Call it my conscience, call it the voice of God - you may call it whatever you wish - but something stopped me. I believe I was chosen for a greater calling. A calling where I could atone, where I could make a difference. Where I could help alleviate a different sort of suffering instead of inflicting it.
"My own father and grandfather didn't understand. They were disgusted when I took my Holy Orders. They owned a tavern in Boston, and the last time I was there, I saw their damned mercenary jar on the bar and something inside me snapped. I picked up the jar and smashed it against the wall. I said that if putting as little as a penny in that jar would help raise enough money to kill one Brit, the price was too high. The only things it would buy, I told them, would be two tickets to Hell. They told me to get out and never spoke to me again, and I've never since set foot in that tavern." He reached for the glass of whiskey, and downed more than half.
Petrovsky looked at the man for a moment, then took another sip of his own drink.
"Father, I believe you do understand. You pay a debt for what you took away. I pay a debt for what was taken from me. Your IRA had a motto. The same motto is printed on the label of this brand of Irish dew. Just as with your riddle that inquires as to which came first, the chicken or the egg, I have no idea whether the IRA took the motto from the distiller or if the distiller took it from them. It really doesn't matter. I feel it is an appropriate motto. 'Let each man be paid in full.' The IRA believes it. So do I.
"They destroyed my life, Father. Harris' father and those like him took my life away from me and they must pay the price. I must pay each of them what I owe them -- in full!"
"I don't understand," said O'Reilly, "what did these people do?"
"My wife, Father -- my beloved Sharra. Her father was the Russian ambassador to Baghdad; her mother was Iraqi. I was part of the Russian contingent in Iraq -- in charge of security for the ambassador. That's where I met Sharra. We were around each other everywhere that the family went. Propinquity had its way with us, and we fell in love. With the blessings of the ambassador and his wife, we were married. She gave herself freely, Father -- a rare thing for a communist such as myself to experience. I worshipped this woman with all my heart. Three years we were married -- the happiest three years of my life. And they took her from me, damn them to Hell!"
"Who did, my son?"
"The devils of Desert Storm. Yes, it was a stupid conflict. Senseless. Saddam Hussein is completely insane. He thinks he is Mohammed's chosen champion. When the ambassador realized this we began making preparations to go back to Russia. He had agreed to take Sharra's widowed half-sister and her daughter, Sharra's niece, with us, as Sharra and her mother were concerned for their safety. I sent two of my best men with Sharra and her mother to her mother's village in Baghdad to fetch the women, as well as gather their essential possessions. I could not go as my immediate duties were to the safety of the ambassador and the final arrangements for the flight out late that night.
"The stealth bombers and their smart bombs came that night. The other planes had other high-explosives and rockets. There are always civilian casualties in war. Bombs and rockets go astray. The smart bombs hit their intended targets. Some of the other weapons did not. Sharra's village took a direct hit. One of my men survived long enough to relate how they and Sharra tried to get her sister and mother to a shelter. They were driving past an Iraqi tank when a fighter launched an air-to-ground rocket, which missed the tank and struck the armor-plated staff car. The resulting explosion ripped the car apart and flung the occupants into the air like rag dolls. Sergei's arm and part of his left leg were blown off. Sharra and the others were killed instantly.
"While Saddam Hussein is responsible for that idiotic war, the people I hold liable for Sharra's death are the military group leaders responsible for ordering the attack. And as God is my witness, they will be paid back."
O'Reilly had seen enough killing. He would see no more. Give me strength, Lord, to do what must be done, he prayed. He leapt from the chair and hurled himself towards the Russian. Almost taken by surprise by the speed of the older man, he fired point-blank and O'Reilly went down.
"Why, you old fool?" Asked Petrovsky. "I would not have killed you. I had planned to lock you up downstairs until my work here was done. Why?"
"Had to...stop...you," O'Reilly choked, blood pouring from his mouth in bright red spurts, "before...more...deaths." He coughed out more blood. "Price...too...high," he choked out. He suffered another paroxysm -- coughed out a great spurt of blood...and died.
"That it is, my friend," said Petrovsky, "that it is. I hope you atoned enough. May you go to your Lord with a clean soul."
He poured another large measure of whiskey. He looked at the bottle's label.
Let each man be paid in full.
If he was to do so, he must do something about Shepherd. The man could be trouble. He read the label again.
Let each man be paid in full.
Petrovsky stared at it for a moment. Remembering a line from the movie, 'The Ten Commandments', he said, "So let it be written, so let it be done."
"Burning both ends of the candle,
Can't worry 'bout the things that we don't know,
Goin' just as fast as we can go,
Any way the wind blows.
And we don't know what lies in store,
But still we walk through that open door,
We just go any way the wind blows."
"Any Way The Wind Blows"
J. McFee / A. Pessis
"Dief! Get off me, goddamn it," Ray said to the wolf, who had gotten up from his favorite place in front of the refrigerator to greet Ray by jumping up on him.
The wolf whined at Ray's tone and slunk back over to his spot and laid back down.
Ray walked over to the bed and said, "Benny, wake up." Getting no response, he repeated his entreaty, but louder, "Benny. Wake up!"
Ben opened his eyes and squinted up at Ray. "Ray? What time is it?"
"A few minutes after three. C'mon, get up! Sharon's got some results for us."
"Now? It's the middle of the night."
"You know the CPD motto. We never sleep."
"Actually, Ray, I believe that's the motto of Roto Rooter. With the money plumber's charge, I can understand their willingness to get up at any hour. Myself, on the other hand...."
"Aw, c'mon. You're as curious about this as I am. Hurry up and get dressed, Jim's gonna meet us at the station in twenty minutes."
"All right, Ray," said Ben. "Let's go see what's what."
* * *
They pulled up in front of the station just in time to see Shepherd getting out of a cab and paying the driver.
"Hey Jim," Ray called. "Think Sharon's solved our case for us?"
"Wouldn't it be nice, Ray?" Asked the Army Captain. "Unfortunately, life's not that simple. In any case, you'll still owe her that favor." The three men headed into the station.
"Don't remind me. When she said dancing, I figured a nice dinner at some posh place and then a few fox trots. Nope. She's into that Texas Two Step shit. There's some western joint over on the boulevard where she wants to go to...how the hell did she put it? Oh, yeah. Strut our stuff. That's what she said."
"Jesus, Ray. Won't you look like a real shit-kickin' dude in an Armani suit, wearing cowboy boots and a Stetson, dancing the Two Step," Shepherd laughed.
"No kiddin'," Ray said. "Now I've got to get some western clothes to look the part. I don't know a damned thing about this crap."
"I do. I'd be glad to help you. Especially to help you pick out a hat. Hats are designed for certain shape faces. A lot of guys buy the first hat that fits, and look like hell in it because it's the wrong style for them. You want to look good, not like a rodeo clown."
"Thanks. I'd appreciate it." He looked back at Fraser. "You okay, Benny?"
Ben was caught in mid-yawn. "Fine, Ray, just tired. I just have a two-legged alarm clock that always seems to wake me too early."
"Hey," said Jim. "I don't see my buddy, Dief. Where is the big furball?"
"I left him in my apartment," Ben said. "No reason why one of us shouldn't get some sleep."
They turned into the Records department, and Sharon spotted Ray.
"It's about time, Vecchio," she said.
"What, am I on the clock now?" Ray asked.
"If I'd sat in that chair much longer, I thought I was gonna grow roots."
Shepherd spoke up. "What were you able to find out, Sharon?"
"That this is an interesting group you've got here. All different branches and military backgrounds. Basically nothing in common, except one thing. Desert Storm."
"All of them?" Ben asked.
"All the guys on the Captain's list. That includes your Canadian, Ben. Not everyone on the conference list, but some."
"What did they do in Desert Storm?" Asked Shepherd.
"They were all part of the same command group. Specifically, they were in charge of directing the attacks on Baghdad, itself. They were the ones trying to get Saddam Hussein's underground command post. It's amazing the parallels between that man and Hitler. Plant your weapons emplacements and command posts around a civilian area and dare the opposition to bomb it. Later you can scream about human atrocities and civilian deaths. It's okay, though, that meanwhile you can launch your own weapons at civilian targets in the enemy area. That's okay with Saddam. After all, as far as he's concerned, Mohammed told him to do it. That makes it all right."
"Christ," said Ray, "what a piece of work that guy is. Iraq's version of Son of Sam. Maybe his camel told him to do it."
"Divinely inspired."
"What was that, Benny?"
"I said, Ray, that I believe the man thinks he's divinely inspired. The same way Hirohito, the Emperor of Japan, thought he was divinely inspired when the Japanese tried to capture the whole Pacific. To the Japanese people, their Emperor is a divinity. Adolf Hitler relied, instead, on astrology, augury, prognostication, and other means of foretelling the future. He believed he could arrange events to make Germany the thousand year kingdom foretold in the Bible."
"Jesus," said Ray, "And here I thought all the loons were out on the lake."
Shepherd decided to change the subject. "Thanks a lot, Sharon. For staying and for the data analysis," he said.
"Anytime, Captain. Especially if Ray offers to take me dancing."
Ray just looked at the floor, groaning....
Lt. Victor Zelasko, while enjoying a cup of cappuccino, played his latest tape, which included the intercepted conversation between Sherry Michaels and Bob Davis. It was relatively quiet at that hour of the morning, making it a good time to listen to the tapes, and giving him a chance to relax. When he heard Sherry pass the information about Father Harris on to Davis, he began choking on his coffee and spilled it all over a report on his desk. Realizing the consequences of the information that Davis now possessed, Zelasko immediately grabbed the phone and dialed Petrovsky's number at St. Francis Church.
He muttered to himself as he listened to the rings. "Misha, answer the phone, goddamn it. Answer the goddamn phone." He lost count of the number of rings, but knew it had to be more than thirty, which is approximately three minutes of letting the phone ring. He then tried the office number at the church, but got the answering machine, so hung up. If no one answered either phone, then Petrovsky obviously wasn't there.
The question was...if he wasn't at the church at this hour of the morning, then where the hell was he?
"Love and pain,
Only for the foolish.
Once again,
Try to hide what's there inside.
I'm the same Temporary Hero,
Who's to blame."
"Temporary Heroes"
N. Trevesick / J. Clee
"You know Ray, I think I'm starting to picture you in a pair of lizard hide cowboy boots and some sort of black western clothes," Shepherd was saying, as the three men exited the CPD station. "Rhinestones! Yeah, that's it, Ray. A black shirt with lots of rhinestones."
"Oh, knock it off, Jim," said Ray. He looked at the Army Captain for a second. "Really? You're not just goofing around?"
"Seriously, Ray. What do you think, Ben?"
"It definitely would be a change for you, Ray," said Fraser.
None of the men had taken any notice of the black Dodge parked in the shadows just down the street. Petrovsky - Makarov in hand - watched the three men -- waiting for a clear shot at the army officer. The Mountie was currently standing in the way. Patience, Petrovsky told himself. The Mountie will move and the shot will present itself.
Ray looked across the street and said, "Hey, guys, that all-night convenience joint has coffee. It ain't Carmen's, but it's better stuff than the shit the precinct has. Why don't I run over and get us some?"
"Sure, Ray. Why not? I could use a cup," said Jim.
"Fine, Ray," Ben agreed.
Ray ran across the street and into the store.
"Well, that information Sharon got us is definitely interesting," Shepherd said to Fraser.
"Very. I see where if we don't count the missing people - who we have to assume at this point are probably dead - that leaves us three conference attendees who were part of that command group."
"Looks that way," said Jim. "Hey, as you guys are doing security for this thing, you'd have the info on where the attendees are staying, right?"
"Certainly. Do you need it?"
"Could I have it for the ones on our hit list?"
"I'll have to okay it with the Inspector, but I don't think that will be a problem."
"Great." Shepherd saw the door open across the street. "Here comes Ray." He stepped forward and yelled, "C'mon, Ray. It's chilly out here."
"Keep your shirt on, I'm coming," Ray yelled back.
Petrovsky saw the officer step into the clear and brought the Makarov up and took aim.
As Ray Vecchio stepped off the curb and started to cross the street, the breeze brought him the sickly smell of a car's exhaust. It was an automatic response for a longtime cop like Ray, to look for the idling car. He spotted the car and the barrel of the pistol sticking out of the window at the same moment. "Gun, Benny!" he shouted, dropping the coffees and reaching for his gun.
The well-trained Mountie didn't hesitate by looking for the weapon -- he shoved Shepherd forward and to the left, then attempted to throw himself the opposite way just as Petrovsky fired. Ben felt the bullet hit his left upper arm near the shoulder and the impact spun him over onto his back.
Petrovsky dropped the gun on the seat and hit the accelerator. Seeing Ray, and enraged that the cop had spoiled his ambush, he aimed the Dodge directly for the still-drawing detective.
"Look out, Ray!" Shepherd yelled -- reaching under the back of his jacket and drawing one of the largest pistols Ben had ever seen. Ben watched Shepherd snap the gun up into a modified Weaver two-handed stance and fire off three shots almost in one motion. The cracks of the gun sounded like rifle shots.
Ray tried to dive up onto the sidewalk to avoid the black car, the foremost thought suddenly in his mind that this was it. This was the end. It might very well have been if Shepherd's second shot hadn't ripped through the car's door and imbedded itself into Petrovsky's back, just below the shoulder. Screaming in agony, the Russian lost his grip on the steering wheel long enough that the speeding car missed Ray Vecchio by a cat's whisker.
The Dodge caromed off a parked car -- the impact ripping the right front fender up and out so as to resemble a mutated wing -- before the Russian could regain some control over it. Shepherd was now in the middle of the street, firing the remainder of the clip after the fleeing car until the slide locked back, signifying that the weapon was empty. The bullets ripped into the car, one blowing out the rear windshield and missing Petrovsky's head by a hair before passing through the front windshield. Another took out the rearview mirror. The Russian drove for his life.
Shepherd holstered the pistol, and ran to Ben, still watching him from his prone position on the sidewalk, holding his right hand over his wound.
"You're hurt, Ben. Let's have a look." He took a folding knife from his pocket. "I'm going to have to cut the coat, Ben, " he smiled at the Mountie.
"It's all right, Jim. I'd have to get another one anyway. The Inspector frowns on us wearing uniforms with bullet holes in them."
"Damned quick reflexes, my friend," said the officer. "You saved my ass, and got hit in the bargain. All I can say is thank you, Ben. You have my undying gratitude." He slit the coat sleeve and ripped the cloth back. He then cut the shirt to see the damage.
Sharon Cerullo and a few others from the night watch had come out to see what happened. "What happened?" Sharon asked. "Can I do something?"
"Yeah, Sharon," said Jim. "You can get an ambulance here, like yesterday. And bring out a first aid kit."
"Sure, right away." She ran inside.
Shepherd took out a handkerchief folded it loosely and placed it over the wound. "You're lucky, Ben. It's a deep graze, but no arterial bleeding. Press on that with the other hand."
Sharon returned with the kit, and said, "Ambulance is on its way."
"Thanks Sharon." He dug some large gauze pads and a bandage roll out of the kit. Placing the pads over the handkerchief, he made a pressure bandage and secured it with the roll of bandage. "That's already starting to clot. This will hold until a doctor can look at it."
"Thanks, Jim," said Ben.
"Least I can do for somebody who caught a bullet that was meant for me." He looked toward the street. "Well, the prodigal son returns. Thank you, Ray, for the quick warning."
"Huh?" Asked Ray, wiping coffee off of his suit. "Oh, you're welcome." He saw Ben's bloody coat. "Are you hurt bad, Benny?"
"I'll live, Ray. But thank you for asking."
"Sure, Ben." He looked at Shepherd and said, "what the hell was that about a son?"
"Prodigal son." Seeing it wasn't registering, he said, "never mind, Ray." He smiled and turned back to Ben. "He must be okay, Ben. He's worried about his suit."
"So I see. Thank you, Ray. Your warning helped save our lives, and we've thanked you. Now don't you want to thank the nice army officer?"
"For what?"
"For saving yours? If he hadn't fired into the car, you might not be with us right now."
"Jesus, I wondered how that car missed me. I thought I'd bought it for sure. Thanks, Jim."
"Don't mention it," said Shepherd, "and I refuse to take all the credit. You might want to say an extra thank you at your local church."
"Yeah, that might be a good idea," said Ray. "My mother will insist on it, anyway."
Ben looked at Shepherd. "By the way, Jim, what is that cannon you're carrying around?"
Shepherd pulled the weapon from its rear holster, and handed it to the Mountie. "Israeli Arms Desert Eagle semi-automatic, imported by Magnum Research. .357 Magnum. Winchester silvertip ammo custom loads."
"Heavy action," said Ben. "Sounds like a rifle."
"Hits like a truck. It can put a hole in a car's engine block. That reminds me. The damage to that car isn't going to be fixed in a hurry. This may be a break of sorts for us." He holstered the weapon and looked at Ben. "I don't like the price we paid for that break, though."
"I'll live," said Ben, smiling.
The ambulance finally arrived. Ben was put on board, and Shepherd rode in the ambulance with him to the hospital. Ray followed in the Riviera.
"Where you gonna go.
Where you gonna hide.
It's cold and lonely
For the Outlaw."
"The Outlaw Blues"
The black Dodge started to sputter and finally died near a small shopping plaza. Petrovsky looked at the gauges and seeing the fuel gauge below the E, he realized that a bullet must have ripped a hole in the fuel tank. In such extreme pain that he thought he might pass out at any moment, he abandoned the car, removing the license plates and throwing them into a storm drain. Seeing a few cars in the plaza parking lot, even at this early hour, he decided to steal one.
When he thought he was far enough from the plaza where he had stolen a Ford Escort, he stopped at a public phone and called Peter.
"Hello?"
"Peter, it's me," Petrovsky croaked in agony. "I've been shot - I need help."
"Misha, where are you?"
"Near the Crossroads Mall. I need a doctor, Peter."
"Can you drive?"
"Hurts like shit, but I'll manage. To where?"
"390 Commonwealth. Ask for Doctor Baxter. Not cheap, but a man of discretion, if you follow me."
"I understand. Thank you. Hopefully, I'll be in touch soon."
"Good luck, Misha."
"Thank you, Peter. Goodbye."
"Jesus, what a morning this has been," said Ray Vecchio. "Benny gets shot. I almost get run over. Welsh chews my ass for not keeping him better informed. My suit looks like shit. What the hell else can happen?"
"Cheer up, Ray," said Shepherd. "Your suit could look worse."
"How? Tell me how."
"It could have tire tread marks on it."
Ray looked at Shepherd for a moment. He slowly nodded. "You're right. I could have been under that damned car. I owe you, friend."
"No you don't, Ray. If you hadn't yelled when you did, Ben wouldn't have pushed me forward, and I might have taken that bullet -- possibly in the chest. We're pretty even, but who's keeping score?"
"You're right, Jim, but all I can think of is Benny getting hit."
"He's okay, Ray. You saw him. They cleaned the area, cauterized a couple of small blood vessels, took some stitches, bandaged him up, gave him some nice pain killers, and now he's home sleeping from the relaxant they gave him to make him rest. He'll be good as new in a few days."
"Good. Now he can stop bitching about my waking him up early. He'll catch up on some Z's now. Hey, did I tell you they found the bullet that grazed him?"
"No," said Shepherd, "where was it?"
"They pried it out of a piece of trimming from around one of the windows. It's a big, steel-jacketed bullet. I'll give ya odds it's another .44 Makarov."
"No bet from me. When they put it under the scope, they'll probably find my name on it."
Neither man said anything for a few minutes - then the telephone rang.
Ray grabbed it. "Vecchio." He listened for a minute, then asked, "Where?" Again he listened, and then said, "As soon as you have the lab results, I want to know the scoop. Thanks. See ya." He hung up.
He turned to Shepherd and grinned. "They found the car abandoned in front of the Staples Plaza. Man, that cannon of yours did a hell of a job on it. Besides taking out the rear windshield and part of the front, you tore a chunk out of the gas tank. That's why he had to dump it, and guess what? That shot you put through the door tore a chunk out of him, too. That must have been the one that saved my ass. They found a shitload of blood all over the seat and the door panel. That was no graze, baby. They figure he's lost a few pints. He's gonna need a doctor, so the word's already been spread to all local hospitals and emergency rooms. 'Course that won't stop him if he knows a doctor that'll treat him for big bucks and looks the other way. There's always a few of those around, but we can hope. Anyway, they found prints in the car, and they're running them. They haven't traced the car yet, but they will."
"Well, that's a break. I think I'll check the hotel and see if any messages came in for me. I don't want to tie this phone up, though."
"Use Huey's phone over there - he's away. Line four isn't used as much - try that one."
"Thanks," said Jim. He went over to the other desk and dialed out.
Ray leaned back, munching on a strawberry-filled donut. He sipped at a cup of the liquefied sludge that the station canteen had the nerve to call coffee. "Christ," he said. "We should get combat pay for drinking this shit." The phone rang and he grabbed it.
"Yeah. Vecchio." He listened, and then grabbed a pen and paper. "What was the name again? Yeah....Spell it....And the other name? Yeah, got it, thanks. Bye." He hung up.
Jim walked back over from Detective Huey's desk and sat down. "I've got some interesting news from Bob Davis."
Ray smiled and said, "I've got some interesting news, too. They made the prints. We know who our gunman is."
"Shit," said Shepherd, "that's better news than mine. You first."
"Okay. Our gunman is definitely a Russian. Name of Petrovsky."
"Petrovsky? Why does that ring a bell? What's his first name?"
"Mikhail. Russian for Michael, I guess."
"Holy shit! I know why that name sounds familiar. Misha Petrovsky. If it's the same guy I'm thinking of, he's a crack pistol shot. When he was sixteen, he was on the Russian Olympic Pistol Team. He was one of the best Free Pistol shooters they ever had."
"Sound's like our boy," Ray said. "What happened to him?"
"I'm not sure. Last I heard he was a security specialist. You know, the guys that protect the dignitaries with the armored limo's."
"What's your news?" Asked Ray.
"A body was recovered from an auto accident in some town called Aurora. Burned badly but identified as a Father John Harris. He's an assistant pastor at a St. Francis Church here in Chicago. During the autopsy, the M.E. found the cause of death to be a bullet through the heart. Specifically, a .44 Makarov."
Ray looked at his notes and asked, "What was that name?"
"Harris. John M. Harris."
"Shit, look at this. The car was a rental. The rental contract was made out to a John M. Harris."
"Oh, Ray," said Jim, looking at the notes, "this is even more interesting than you know. The car that burned with Father John Harris in it was registered to Father Harris. And the rental car was rented two days after Harris was found dead? We have a rental car rented by a dead man. You don't see that every day."
"Jesus H.," said Ray.
"Let me use your phone again," said Shepherd.
He dialed long distance.
"Colonel Fitzsimmons' office," answered a woman's voice.
"Donna. This is Jim Shepherd. Is the old man in?"
"Sorry, Shep. General staff meeting. You know how those are."
"Christ, do I. All right. Here's the scoop. I need Fitz's leverage. I need information on a Russian gunman who's raising hell here in Chicago. Here's the information...."
While Shepherd related what information he had and what he needed to the woman on the phone, Ray looked over the papers on his desk.
This, Ray thought, was turning out to be one hell of a case.
Petrovsky pulled into a driveway of a yellow bungalow with white trim. He couldn't see a number on the place, but figured it had to be 390 Commonwealth, as it was between a brown cottage numbered 382, and a green tenement at 398. He went to the side door and rang the bell. He was beginning to get dizzy - probably from blood loss. He rang the bell again. After another half-minute he started pounding on the door.
"All right, I'm coming - keep your ass on," shouted a voice from inside.
The door opened on a security chain. A man's face peered through the space.
"Who the hell are you and what do you want?" Asked the man.
"A mutual friend named Peter told me to ask for Dr. Baxter," said Petrovsky.
The man's voice lowered to just above a whisper. "Go around to the back. There's a bulkhead door. Go down the stairs to the basement." He closed and relocked the door.
Petrovsky found the bulkhead and went down the stairs to another locked door. He heard a bolt draw back and the door opened. The same man from upstairs waved him in and hurriedly closed and bolted the door. Waving him over to a metal-clad door, the man unlocked it and flipped on a wall switch. When the lights came up, Petrovsky saw a well-equipped medical dispensary.
"Let's get that jacket and shirt off and let me see what the damage is," said the man.
"I take it, you're Dr. Baxter," said Petrovsky, as the medical man helped him off with the jacket and then took a pair of scissors and cut away the shirt.
"You take it wrong, but you can call me that if you want. It's as good a name as any. It's the name Peter and others know. My real name I give to no one as what I'm doing is against the law. Understand?"
"Of course, Doctor."
"Good. Now lie down on your stomach and let me get a look at the wound," said Baxter.
Petrovsky did as he was directed. The doctor filled a syringe and said, "I'm going to give you a local anesthetic. I have to probe the area, and I don't want you screaming bloody murder so that the neighbors hear you." He injected the solution in a pattern around the wound. "That'll take a few minutes to set in. I hope you're worth some money, son. This is going to cost you."
"You'll get paid," said the Russian, "don't worry."
The doctor took an x-ray while waiting for the anesthetic to work. He then inserted an IV shunt into Petrovsky's right arm and plugged in a plasma unit. By the time he started the drip, the x-ray was developed. He looked at the film and said, "You're very lucky the bullet didn't hit the lung. There's blood loss, but it's venous, not arterial. I can cauterize those vessels and disinfect and close the area. The muscle damage will heal eventually. The bullet is another matter. It's taken a bounce off a rib and it's lodged near the aorta. It's too dangerous for me to try to remove here. That's major surgery."
"Is it dangerous to leave there?"
"Not as dangerous as me trying to fish for it. It will have to come out eventually."
"Can you give me something for the pain?"
"Yes. I'll fix what I can, then we'll tape your ribs up tight. I'll give you a shot of a morphine-based pain med. I have some pills you can take after that."
"All right, Doctor. Do what you have to do."
Dr. Baxter got down to work.
"Good morning, sir," Benton Fraser said.
Margaret Thatcher looked at him in shock. "What are you doing here, Fraser? It was my understanding that due to the nature of your injury that we wouldn't see you today."
"Well, sir, I may not stay long, but I felt it was only right to fill you in as much as possible on what information we've come up with in assisting in Captain Shepherd's case."
"That's very good of you, Constable," said the Inspector.
"By the way, sir," said Ben. "The information you obtained for us on Col. Ferguson was extremely helpful."
"I'm glad. Sit down then and bring me up to date. Can I have someone get you something? Coffee?"
"Well, sir, a cup of Earl Grey would be nice."
She picked up the phone and dialed. "Turnbull, would you have a cup of black coffee and a cup of Earl Grey tea brought to my office? Thank you, Constable."
She hung up the phone. "Now, Fraser, you may proceed."
The telephone on Ray Vecchio's desk was on the sixth ring by the time Ray managed to wash down the mouthful of donut. Then he grabbed the receiver.
"Vecchio." He listened for a few seconds, and said, "Hey Jim, it's Bob Davis for you."
"Thanks, Ray," said Shepherd, taking the phone. "Yeah, Bob."
"We've arrived, Shep. We're at the Training Center. Commander Sherman says, and I quote, 'Tell that son-of-a-bitch that he's still the ugliest thing that Uncle Sam ever put in a uniform', and he wants to know if there's a reply?"
"Yeah. Tell him that's only because his sister never joined the service."
He heard Davis repeat his reply, then heard a roar of laughter in the background.
"Shep, he said you haven't changed a bit."
"Such is life," said Jim. "Everything's here?"
"Yep, we brought it all," said Davis. "Hey Jim, is Doug's sister really that bad-looking?"
"Well, let me put it this way. When Doug's dad was stationed at Annapolis, and they lived off base, the old joke was that they had to keep Tracy inside every morning or the sun wouldn't come up. No, she's actually turned into a cute kid. She's pretty good at judo, I hear. Rumor has it that she managed to throw her big brother onto the mat."
"No shit. I'll have to mention that. So, when are you coming by?"
"Probably in a couple of hours. I want to put the XR-9 together, just in case I need it. This case is starting to get wild."
"Okay, Shep. We'll see you then."
"See you, Bob." He hung up.
"What are you going to do now, Jim," said Ray.
"Nothing -- until I hear from the old man."
"Don't say that too loud, will ya? That's what we call Lt. Welsh."
"I hope they're not too much alike," Shepherd said. "There won't be enough room on the planet for the both of them."
"We can only hope. Here," said Ray, holding out a box. "Have another donut."
They sat back to wait.
"It's high noon
Everywhere you go,
And the guilt you feel
Is the weary soul
Of the Outlaw."
"The Outlaw Blues"
Mikhail Petrovsky sat in the study - his still sore rib cage taped so tightly he could barely breathe - and downed three fingers worth of the Irish whiskey. To his mind the whiskey made a much better painkiller than the doctor's pills. Looking around the study, he realized that there was still blood on the floor from where Father O'Reilly had fallen. Petrovsky had carried the body down to the basement dungeon wrapped in the hooked rug from the study floor, but had neglected the wooden floor, being in a hurry to take care of the army Captain. Now the blood had dried and darkened on the inlaid floor - possibly staining it permanently.
After ditching the stolen Escort, he'd flagged down a taxi to drive him back to the church. He had remembered to call and give the Dolan woman a few days off. He'd made up an excuse that O'Reilly was going to be away on business, and that he, himself, would be out and about and would fend for himself - giving Agnes a few well-deserved days off. She wasn't sure at first, but had warmed to the idea soon enough. The last thing he needed was to have the woman coming in and finding no rug in the study, and blood on the floor.
He poured another two fingers of the whiskey. Damn that Shepherd. The man had nine lives. Who knew the man could shoot like that? Shoot like...shoot...like what? A marksman? An expert marksman? A U.S. Champion marksman? He suddenly dropped the glass in horror. Jim Shepherd? It couldn't be the same one...or could it?
"Oh my God," he said aloud. "What have I done? My brother would never forgive me. Josef," he cried, looking upwards, "I'm sorry...I didn't know! Forgive me, my brother!"
He lowered his face into his hands and wept.
Ray Vecchio walked into the precinct room carrying a distinctive box labeled Carmen's in fancy script. Setting the box on his desk, he looked around for Shepherd, and saw the army officer at Huey's desk with the phone jammed to his ear, and scribbling furiously on a notepad.
Ray opened the box, and took out two large containers of coffee. He set one on the far side of the desk for Shepherd, and popped the lid off of the other. Taking a sip, he sighed, "Man, this is heaven." He then set a chocolate frosted, jimmy-encrusted donut next to Shepherd's coffee and took out a strawberry jelly for himself. He looked for the two fresh apricot danish he had bought for Ben - figuring on dropping them by the Mountie's apartment later. That's if Welsh didn't steal them.
As much as the gruff Lieutenant complained about his weight, and that he wouldn't be caught dead eating anything sweet, donuts and danish always seemed to disappear from Ray's desk like magic. Ray was relatively sure that the other denizens of the department weren't taking the pastry, as the majority brought in their own. That only left Welsh - the Great White Shark of the department - as the one scavenging anything unguarded.
The evidence seemed pretty clear. The man was on a diet, yet didn't lose a pound. In fact, Ray would almost bet that the man looked ten pounds heavier than when he started his diet. He was probably scarfing everything he could during the day because his wife was feeding him strictly by his dietitian's guidelines. Ray could almost imagine the burly detective sitting down at home to a meal of a couple of ounces of chicken, a vegetable, maybe a couple of stalks of celery, and a small salad with a blob of cottage cheese on top. Yech.
Ray did the only thing he could think of -- he took the two danish from the box and hid them in the bottom drawer of his desk.
Seeing a shadow cross the desk, he looked up to see Shepherd smiling at him. "What?" Ray asked.
Jim pointed to the coffee cup with Carmen's printed on it. "I take it you've had enough of the 10W-50 they serve here?"
"Jesus, you ain't kiddin'," Ray said. "I needed a cappuccino fix in the worst way. I got you that dark espresso like you had the other day."
"Thanks." Shepherd looked at the jimmy-covered donut. "You remembered."
"Yeah. I even got two apricot danish to drop by Benny's later." He looked over his shoulder for a second, then turned back towards Shepherd. "That is if that walking stomach that passes for Lt. Welsh doesn't sniff them out first." He gulped down more of the cappuccino. "Ah, what a difference. Hey, you looked pretty intense on the phone, what was that all about?"
Shepherd washed down some of the donut with the espresso. "Mmm, that is good. Carmen should sell franchises. Anyway, that was the old man. He got the lowdown on Petrovsky from the Russian ambassador in D.C. It seems Fitz and the ambassador and some of the state department people all like to get together occasionally for high-stakes poker games, so they all know each other pretty well." He took another bite of the donut.
"Anyhow," he said, through the mouthful of donut, "it is the same Petrovsky I thought it was. Misha - that's a nickname he's had since he was a kid - was working as head of security for the Russian ambassador to Iraq at the time Desert Storm took place. Petrovsky was married to the ambassador's daughter.
"With attacks getting closer to Baghdad and the embassy, the ambassador decided to head back to Russia with his whole entourage, including his widowed stepdaughter, who lived in a village in Baghdad with her daughter, the ambassador's step-granddaughter. The ambassador's wife and Sharra, Misha's wife, accompanied by two of Misha's best men, took an armored limo to pick up the two women and their valuables. Before they could return, one of the night attacks on Baghdad began. Evidently they tried to drive to the closest shelter.
"While the stealth bombers were taking out the major targets with the smart bombs, the escort fighters with their night vision gear were hitting gun emplacements and tanks. The danger was great to civilians because Saddam would place his tanks right in civilian areas. One of the escorting F-18's picked up a tank on their sensors and launched an air-to-ground rocket at it. The damned rocket missed the tank and hit the fleeing armored limo and blew it to shit - killing the women and one of the security men instantly. The other security man, who eventually died, lived long enough to get word to Misha and the ambassador.
"Misha went nuts, according to the ambassador. Sharra had become Misha's whole reason for being. The other security people had to sedate Misha to get him back to Russia. He didn't blame the attacking pilots for the disaster. They were just following orders. In Misha's mind, the blame belonged to the group who had given the orders to attack the area that night. Through the intelligence network, he was able to find out the names of the officers in that particular attack group. He vowed to get each and every one of them for Sharra. The Russians weren't too keen on vendettas, so they started keeping a close eye on Misha. Unfortunately, Misha had established his own contacts over the years. He was also quite skilled at impersonation. Before he joined the security service, he was one of the government's best field men. He could blend into a community for months at a time. He became known in certain circles as The Chameleon. There were many people afraid of complaining about conditions in Russia, fearing that the sympathetic man with whom they spoke might really be Misha in disguise.
"He disappeared from their surveillance and nobody knew where the hell he was. Of course, we do now. They deny any affiliation with him. He wouldn't even be welcome back in Russia now. They wouldn't trust him again - they'd kill him first. He's become a wild card - a freelancer of sorts with his own agenda. He'll carry out that agenda or die trying."
"Shit!" said Ray. "I actually feel kind of sorry for the poor bastard."
"So do I," said Shepherd. "Misha was a good egg years ago. Now he's come to this. If we get the chance we'll have to take him out. He knows he can't go home again. He'll give everything he's got to finish his vendetta. If I thought he'd listen, I'd try to talk to him, but it wouldn't do any good."
"Christ. Russian vendettas," said Ray. "And here I thought those stories from Sicily were bad."
The two men finished their coffees in silence.
Major Jorge Juarez, USMC, had just checked into the hotel and was setting out his shaving gear in the ample bathroom when there was a knock on the door. "Who is it?" Shouted the Major from the bathroom.
"Room service, sir."
Juarez walked over and opened the door. "I didn't call room service."
"No sir, you didn't," said the waiter. "This has been sent up for you, compliments of the management." He wheeled in a cart with flowers and a magnum of champagne chilling in an ice bucket, pushing the door closed with a flick of his foot in the practiced style of the professional wait staff. He handed the check board and room check to the officer and said, "If you wouldn't mind signing this, sir, I'll open your champagne for you."
"Thank you," said Juarez. He signed the check and wrote an okay for a twenty percent gratuity for the waiter, all the while anticipating the pop of the cork. Instead, the Major heard a soft, thutt, an instant before the impact of the heavy .44 slug smashed him in the chest and cut through his heart. The marine officer was dead before his body hit the floor.
Petrovsky stuck the silenced Makarov in the waistband of his trousers, near his spine, making sure the waiter's jacket covered it, then finished opening the bottle of champagne with a towel muffling the pop in professional style. He poured a generous measure in one of the beautiful crystal glasses, and, holding it up as in a toast, said, "This is for you, Sharra. Only for you, beloved."
He then exited the room, saying loudly over his shoulder for the benefit of anyone in the hallway, "Thank you, sir. If there's anything else you require, please call us. We aim to please."
He smiled, thinking of the play-on-words, as he walked quickly down the hall to the stairway.
Jim Shepherd walked into the Great Lakes Training Center and went straight to the office of Commander Doug Sherman, USN.
The inner door to the Commander's office was open, so before he could announce himself to the yeoman in the outer office, Doug had spotted him, roared a "Hello," and dragged him into the inner office.
"Well how the hell are you, you army mule?"
"Fine, you old navy goat. Where have you got my guys stashed, or have they been clapped in irons already?"
"Not yet, but it's still early," said Doug. "Plenty of time to qualify for our fabulous brig. You look thin, you bastard. Don't they feed you in that damned army?"
"Of course, but can I help it if the navy steals all the steaks and roasts before we poor GI's can get them? They compensate us by letting us have all the Spam we can eat."
Doug grimaced. "Don't even kid about that stuff. Christ. MRE's suck, but even they're better than that shit. You can feel your arteries hardening while you're eating Spam. They say it's only pork shoulder and pork. Personally, I believe it's the part of the pig they found sitting on the fence."
Shepherd laughed. "The Chicago PD has a coffee that'll go with it perfectly. The stuff is all-purpose. You can drink it and fill your crankcase with what's left over."
"Ugh," Doug shuddered. "And here I thought Cookie's coffee was bad. Live and learn, I guess. C'mon, let's go find your boys." Doug led the way down the hall.
Bob Davis saw them coming. "Quick, guys," he shouted, "knock off the crap game, it's the boss!" He, Bill Edwards, and Woody Woodford jumped to their feet.
"Yeah, right," said Shepherd, entering the room, "you guys couldn't be that stupid. Doug's just dying to have this whole building swabbed. Aren't you Doug?"
"Anytime, Shep. Just say the word. We can always use volunteers."
Shepherd lowered his voice so only the five of them could hear. "Doug, has there been any sign of Cunningham?"
"No, Shep. Not a sign."
"Have you had any thoughts about letting some of the SEAL trainees check parts of the lake for him?"
"Jesus, Jim, are you serious?"
"Very. They found Maxwell, from Quantico, in Chesapeake Bay."
"Shit. It's something I may have to do. Even if he's there, they may not find him. Even with halogen floods, sometimes a diver can't see twenty feet in front of him with all the silt and shit that the storms churn up from the bottom. They could swim right past him and not see him."
"Either way, it'll be good training for them."
"True," said Sherman. "Hey, next time you can stay longer, you've got to try one of the new drysuits. They're even thinner and lighter than the old ones."
"Figures," Jim said. "We can't even get the old ones. We're still patching the wetsuits."
"Ha. That's the army for ya'. Don't worry, I'll send you some of the old ones we don't need. Hey, where's this toy of yours?"
"It's over there, Shep," said Davis, pointing towards an empty bunk.
Doug followed Shepherd over to the bunk. "Douglas, my friend," said Jim, "you're about to see perfection assembled." He opened the molded case.
"Jesus Christ," Doug exclaimed.
"This, Doug, is the XR-9. An engineering marvel. Rifle marksmen around the world were asked what features they'd like to see in a rifle. This encompasses them all. NASA came up with the plastic the stock is made from." He held up the two sections of stock. "Two piece stock. Light as a feather and stronger than steel. You can customize the balance for an individual shooter by inserting or removing weights from the butt of the stock. Here's how to assemble the beast. The breechlock assembly goes in first." Jim slipped the assembly into its molded seat. "Then, the forepiece of the stock fits like so..." He slid it into place. "Then we take and tighten these lugs with the torx driver. They used to use allen lugs, but torx are less prone to getting chewed and easier to use in the dark. Now we screw on the main barrel...tighten this lug...then the second section of the barrel screws in. If you look here, you can't even see the seam where the sections of the barrel fit together...and the third section is optional, though it increases the range - I usually use it. It has a built in flash suppresser. There's an additional silencer piece for real quiet work if needed, though I don't like to use it unless it's an emergency because the back pressure of any silencer can throw a bullet off over distance. If you can't be sure you'll get a second shot, you may not want to use the silencer. Then we have a choice of scopes. For daylight use, a custom scope by Leopold. For night work, the crowning touch -- a customized starlight scope. Both scopes have bullet compensation adjustments for crosswinds. With this rifle, Doug, and perfect conditions, a certain kind of marksman can hit a target in the dead of night from over a mile, with a deviation from point-of-aim of less than a sixteenth of an inch. As there's no such thing as absolutely perfect conditions, I calculate it to be accurate at that distance from a quarter to a half inch."
"Christ, Jim, I'm glad you're on our side. What sort of ammo does this thing use?"
"Depends on the distance and type of situation. Relatively short or medium shots can call for an expanding round. For long shots, a steel-jacketed bullet is the most accurate. Sometimes though, the jacketed slug doesn't instantly finish the job. It depends on where you have to hit the target. A hostage situation is dangerous, because you have to worry about the target still being able to kill the hostage with his last ounce of strength. In that instance you want to maximize the damage in order to give the hostage the greatest chance of survival. For those instances we sometimes have to use these exploding tip bullets. Scramble the brain's ability to control the rest of the body and that body will go down without being able to hurt the hostage. I hope we don't have to use the XR-9, but with this guy, I have a bad feeling - so I wanted to assemble it in case."
"Shit," said Doug, "you and your bad feelings. Every time you get one of those, I want to run for cover. The last time I remember was that British oil rig in the North Sea that had the explosion and fire. That Royal Navy lieutenant and the oil company's underwater rigger would have gone down at least six hundred feet to their death if you hadn't cut them loose on the way down. We thought we'd lost the three of you. Thank God there was a hyperbaric chamber available. You spent almost two days in the thing, as I recall."
"Yeah," said Shepherd. "They were great guys, though, and we got great food. All the steaks we could eat. What the hell were the names of those guys? The Royal Navy guy was Jack something. Dees?"
"Dawes, I think," said Sherman.
"Yeah, that's it. Jack Dawes. And the rigger's name was Joe something-or-other, but everybody called him Tito, 'cause he looked something like Tito, the head of Yugoslavia. Two great guys. Remember when we were shooting skeet from the deck of the ship? Joe was fascinated by it, and said his brother was a good shot, too, but not as good as I was. A good kid. I hope those guys are well."
"Yeah, me too," Doug said.
"Doug, do you mind if Bill sets up here in case we need the computer network?"
"Shit, no. He's better than anybody we've got, anyway."
"You heard the man, Bill. And Woody? Give me one of the portable scrambled cell phones. You can do the communication liaison between our people here and Washington. How many of those do you have?"
"Four," said Woodford.
"Good. I'll give one to the CPD in case Ray Vecchio has to contact me or you guys here."
A voice called from the hall, "Commander Sherman?"
"Right here. That you, Nelson?"
"Yes, sir. There's a Detective Vecchio on the line for Captain Shepherd."
"Thanks, Yeoman, we'll take it in my office."
"Very good, sir".
"Let's shake a leg, James."
They ran to Sherman's office. Doug punched the flashing button and handed the phone to Shepherd.
"Yeah, Ray," said Jim.
"Our boy has struck again."
"Son of a bitch. Who got it?"
"He got two marines on two different floors in the same hotel by posing as a waiter. A Major Juarez and a Lt. Colonel Thompson."
"Damn, he's efficient. Two more down. How many left?"
"Only one that I can see. But this one's a big fish -- General Alan MacDougall from the Canadian army. He's supposed to be a good friend of the Canadian Consul General."
"You better let Inspector Thatcher know - that's her area."
"I was afraid of that. Maybe I'll pick Benny up. She won't bite my head off if he's there with me."
"Offer her some officers as guards. Maybe that'll put you on her good side. Anything on St. Francis Church?"
"Just an answering machine. The trouble is, it's a different precinct, so it's kind of political."
"Oh, Christ," Shepherd said. "Just what we need. I can just hear it. The old, 'You don't tell me what to do in my own precinct,' bullshit."
"You got it," said Ray. "We have to go through the Commissioner's office and have the order come down from there."
"I'll tell you what. Give me a chance to come by and give you one of our scrambled cell phones. It'll give you a direct scrambled line to us. I'll drop one with you, and you take it with you. Then go get Ben and go talk to the Canadians. I'm going to go and check out St. Francis Church. It would be nice to see some cops there, too."
"Looks like I'll have to ask Welsh to bitch to the Commissioner."
"Good luck, Ray. Bob and I will borrow a vehicle and see you in about twenty minutes."
"See you, Jim." They both hung up. Shepherd walked back to his men's quarters.
"Gentlemen," said Shepherd. "We've got work to do."
"Thank you for using Thrifty Rent-A-Car, Mr. O'Reilly," said the pretty blonde woman at the rental counter.
"You're welcome, darlin' - and thank you!" Petrovsky said, in his best Irish brogue.
He walked out to the red Nissan Maxima and started the engine. While adjusting the seats and mirrors, he remembered reading a recent statistic stating that red cars accounted for almost half the cars on American roads, and that the majority of these were from Japanese manufacturers. He figured the red Nissan would blend in quite nicely.
In the event that the police started looking for it, Petrovsky had left O'Reilly's black Chrysler New Yorker parked in a long-term garage. He couldn't take the chance of someone recognizing the Monsignor's car, and seeing someone else behind the wheel.
He drove back towards the church via the back streets. He came to a power company right-of-way and turned up it. About a half mile in, he saw the oak tree with the freshly painted silver streak he'd recently applied to the bark. He slowed the car and turned in past the tree and slowly drove over grass, weeds and roots until he was out of sight of the right-of-way. He got out of the car and locked it.
Petrovsky was now on St. Francis' land. With the exception of the area occupied by the former castle, the entire parcel was approximately thirty acres of woods and fields, bordered in the rear by the right-of-way.
The Russian continued to walk for another 200 yards or so, until he came to a small clearing - in the middle of which was a large well. He walked up to the well and gripping the wall with both hands, put his right leg over until his foot found the top rung of the set-in ladder. He climbed down the fifteen rungs to the granite sill of the steel-clad door that was set into the rock wall of the old well. He turned the handle and swung the door inwards. Good, he thought. The lubricant had loosened the action of the hinges quite nicely. When he first had discovered and opened the door, he'd had to strain to open it enough to squeeze through; not doing his stitched wound any good.
Petrovsky took a mini-flashlight from his pocket, turned it on, and proceeded through the dank, musty passage until he came to a huge granite block. Locating the control lever, he turned it to the right, and pulled it outward until he felt a click. The granite block pivoted in the center and the Russian pushed it open enough to walk through into the dungeon of the former castle. He then turned around and pushed the nicely balanced door closed until it clicked into place. A nice piece of work, that. It had taken the Russian two hours to find the hidden doorway, though he had suspected such a thing in the construction. The castle, although scaled down, was definitely authentic in detail.
He walked upstairs, thinking about the last of the allied group. It was time to prepare. Tonight would be the final act of retribution. One way or another, tonight was the final act in this play.
Ray was just coming out of the CPD station when Shepherd and Davis pulled up in a Navy car.
"What's wrong with this picture?" Ray asked.
"Don't knock it," said Shepherd, "the Army would've given us an open jeep. Did you have any luck with Welsh?"
"Yeah, if I'm not deaf in my left ear for the next six months from Welsh screaming in it. He bitched so much to the Commissioner's office, that they ordered Captain Johnstone in the Uniform Division to send people over to the church to check on it."
"Good. What about the Mounties?"
"Yeah, I even got up enough backbone to talk to Thatcher. Jesus, I didn't believe it. She actually thanked me for my concern and said she was sending Mounties over to the Hyatt for guard duty, so she wouldn't be needing our people as guards."
"So what are you going to do now?" Asked Jim.
"I figured I'd go see how Benny was doing."
"Good. You can fill him in on what's going on. Give you a chance to take over those danish."
"Are you kidding? Welsh must have a nose like an Aardvark. Those poor danish never had a chance. I didn't even find the waxed paper. For all I know, Welsh may have eaten that, too. I pity the poor dentist that has to work in his mouth any time soon. They'll be calling the poor guy 'Lefty'."
Shepherd laughed. "Bob and I are going over to the church, so we'll see your uniformed people there. Here's the cell phone to contact us with. Just hit 1 for me, or 2 for Bill and Woody at the Training Center."
"What's the matter, the Army can't spring for the new flip jobs that fit in your pocket?"
"The scrambler circuitry isn't small enough to fit one yet, so we still use these."
"I suppose you have your toy with you that you were telling me about?" Ray asked.
"The XR-9? It's in the trunk. I hope we don't need it, Ray, but I don't intend to fool with this guy. He's as dangerous as a wounded and cornered tiger. He's got nowhere to go and nothing to lose. If it comes down to it, and I see a shot, I'll take it. Stay in touch, will ya?"
"You got it, Jim. Good luck."
"You, too. Give my regards to Ben. See you later." He motioned to Davis, and they drove off.
"Damn," Ray said. "Why do I get the feeling that the shit is about to hit the world's biggest fan and I'm standing downwind from it?"
He shook his head and headed for his car.
Margaret Thatcher looked at her watch. It was time for her to go and check on the men she'd sent over to the Hyatt to stand guard on General MacDougall. If something happened to the man while her people were responsible for his safety, she'd face the wrath of the Consul General. She was afraid he'd hold her solely responsible. God knows where she'd end up posted. Perhaps she'd end up counting the white wolves on Ellesmere Island or be posted to some equally distant wilderness. Compared to that, even a long afternoon spent with Constable Renfield Turnbull, listening to him expound his theory of why the paper clip should be named the greatest invention of the 20th century, would be a relief.
She shuddered at the thought, as she slipped on her coat, and left the building.
Shepherd and Davis pulled up near the driveway of St. Francis Church to see two police cars from CPD already on the scene.
Three officers were watching a fourth play a portable spotlight around the windows and the towers of the former castle.
"Who's in charge here, gentlemen?" Shepherd asked.
"Who the fuck are you, Mack?" Asked a tall, skinny, shifty-looking officer.
"Shepherd. Captain, U.S. Army."
"Big shit. Is that supposed to impress us?"
"Shut up, Jackson," said another officer, this one of medium height, stocky-build, but at least a modicum of intelligence. "This guy could take you apart without breaking a sweat."
Jackson started to say, "I don't think...."
"That's right, Jackson," interrupted the stocky officer, "you don't think, which is a great relief to the population at large. Sir," he said to Shepherd, "I'm Officer Medeiros. These others are Hemphill and Bosworth, and you've also met Jackson. I have the seniority, so I guess I'm in charge until they send a higher-ranking officer. I heard you were coming, sir. What can you tell us?"
"We're looking for a Russian assassin who's on a vendetta mission against certain military officers. We think he may be here in this church. Possibly posing as a priest. There's supposed to be a Monsignor O'Reilly here as well. He's the Pastor. Any sign of anyone?"
"Not so far, Captain. No sign of any cars, either."
"Our boy had to ditch one, but the Pastor's car is unaccounted for. A black New Yorker according to records. Have you been around the grounds?"
"We can't get in there, Captain. There's some big sort of iron gate thing that's been lowered and we can see through it, but we can't move it."
"A portcullis. Designed to keep medieval invaders out, but the castle archers could shoot through the openings while other defenders on the wall above could drop boiling oil on those trying to storm the castle. You'll never lift it. A winch inside the walls controls it. It could be cut by a good torch man, but it would take awhile."
"Unless someone is here, Captain, then I can't see much point in staying. Not unless..."
"Hey," Officer Bosworth called, "I think I saw somebody in that right-most window. Put the light on it, Gary."
Officer Gary Hemphill shone the spot on the window. "Somebody's moving in there, Mark," he said to Medeiros.
Jackson stepped forward and yelled up at the window. "Hey, you up there. This is the police. We want to talk to you, so get your ass down here!"
"He has such a personable way about him, doesn't he?" Shepherd asked Medeiros.
"Yeah. Personally, I think his parents are brother and sister. If he wasn't the watch commander's nephew, he wouldn't even be here. Howdy Doody never had as many strings pulled for him as this kid has."
"Did you hear me up there, asshole?" Jackson screamed up at the window.
"Jackson, for Christ's sake," said Hemphill. "Take it easy."
"Fuck you, Gary. I'll get this guy down here. Watch." He drew his revolver and waved it at the window. "Last chance, shithead. Come down now, or we'll open fire!"
"Jackson! Put that weapon away!" Shouted Medeiros.
The tragedy was of Jackson's own making. "Okay, mother fucker. I warned you." Completely forgetting he was standing in the backwash of the spotlight, he fired a shot at the shadow in the window.
"Jackson! Goddamn it! Turn off that fucking light, Gary!" Screamed Medeiros, too late.
The shadow shot back.
Shepherd heard the same heavy roar of the Makarov that he'd heard when Ben had taken the bullet. Jackson dropped like a stone.
With the light now off, Shepherd approached Jackson's body. One look was enough. The bullet had smashed into Jackson's forehead, just above the left eye, and had exited through the back of the head, just to the left of Jackson's right ear. The man had died instantly.
Shepherd shook his head. Petrovsky was here. It was going to be a long night.
Mikhail Petrovsky looked at himself in the mirror, shaking his head. Idiots, some of these police. The one who had fired the shot was insane. Petrovsky had put him out of his misery as one would a mad dog. The incident was good fortune in a way. They would send more police here, assuming he was holed up in the castle, diverting attention from where he was going. Perhaps the news would lull the guards around the Canadian into relaxing their vigilance to some extent.
He finished dressing and looked at his final disguise in the mirror. Excellent. The Chameleon shall once again blend into the background. He turned and started down the stairs - heading for the subterranean passageway and the night.
Ray Vecchio parked the 1971 Riviera in front of Fraser's apartment building. He was just getting out of the car, when Fraser walked out of the building. He spotted Ray and said, "Ray. I was just coming to find you."
"Benny, what the hell are you doing up? I thought the doctor told you to get plenty of bed rest and not overdo it?"
"Yes, he did, Ray, but I feel much better. Besides, I have the feeling that something may happen tonight and I'd be shirking my duty if I didn't at least see if I was needed."
"Shit. Plenty's already happened." He told Ben about the two marines killed earlier in the day.
"I just found that out," said Ben. "I called to see if the Inspector needed anything, and Constable Turnbull gave me that news. That leaves General MacDougall as the last target, and Inspector Thatcher has gone over to his hotel to personally oversee security. I think she's afraid for her job, Ray."
"Ain't we all?" Asked Ray. "She doesn't have any right to be any more paranoid than the rest of us about it."
"Nevertheless, Ray, I think I should go to the Hyatt and offer my assistance in some way."
"Okay, Benny. Think of me as the genie in the lamp. Your wish is my command. Let's go. Shit, it's the Hyatt, isn't it? Traffic over there's gonna be a bitch. We better go the long way around -- at this time of night, it'll actually get us there sooner."
The two men got into Ray's car and headed for the hotel.
The hotel manager was reprimanding the desk clerk for eating food on duty, when a shadow fell across the counter. He turned to the man in uniform and said, "May I help you, sir?"
"Yes. I've been called in to relieve one of the security men around General MacDougall. I was told you could direct me?"
"Certainly, Officer...."
"Gray. And it's Constable."
"Certainly, Constable Gray. We've put them on the 16th floor. Room 1601. Take the elevator around the corner and turn left when you get out. It's the last room on the left, near the stairs."
"Thank you." He turned and headed for the elevators.
"Nice looking man," said the desk clerk.
"We're not discussing him, Susan," said the manager, "we were discussing the rule of no eating food - including candy bars - on duty."
* * *
Petrovsky got off the elevator on the 15th floor, and proceeded to the stairway. He slowly looked up and down the staircase as he stepped out on the 15th floor landing. He then slowly walked up the stairs to the 16th floor landing, smiling at the guard standing next to the access door.
"How's it been going? Quiet?"
"So far," said the guard. "I haven't seen you before, have I?"
"No," said Petrovsky, still climbing to the landing. "Gray. I just got in from Ottawa, and they thought one of you guys could use a relief for awhile, so they sent me over." He stepped onto the landing.
"Which one of us?" Asked the guard.
"Doesn't much matter, I guess. One now, and one later, I figure. Hey, is that paint on your jacket? You know how the Inspector is." He reached to point towards the man's left shoulder.
"Shit, that's all I need tonight. Where...?"
Petrovsky fired a burst of mace into the guard's face from the small sprayer concealed in his left hand. The man clutched at his face as the burning liquid hit his eyes. Petrovsky then doubled the man over by hitting him in the stomach, and slugged him at the base of the skull with the butt of the Makarov. The guard went down like a felled tree.
The Russian hoped that taking the guard outside the door of Room 1601 would be as easy. He'd just as soon leave the man alive if possible. The only killings he could justify were those called for by his vendetta and those in self-defense if absolutely necessary. Unnecessary deaths were unprofessional. He hoped the same ploy would work with the other guard.
He opened the door and stepped into the hall, pretended to wave to the unconscious guard on the stairs, and said, "Okay, I'll relieve this guy first and you later, if that's the way you want it. See you later." Letting the door close, he turned toward the guard near the room door and said, "He's a generous guy, huh? I'm here to relieve one or the other of you guys so you can have a break, and he says for you to go first. Pretty nice of him, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it is, Constable...?"
"Gray. So if you want, go ahead and take an hour, then come back and then I can relieve him for an hour," the Russian said, motioning his head toward the stairs. He frowned and reached toward the guard's shoulder. "What the hell's this on your jacket? Looks like a stain."
"Damn. Where...?"
Another blast of the sprayer and the man groaned in agony, reaching for his eyes. Petrovsky put him down the same way, but the scuffle had been heard in the room. Inspector Margaret Thatcher swung open the door. When she saw the strange Mountie standing over the guard, she started to draw her sidearm.
"Don't!" Shouted Petrovsky, bringing the Makarov to bear.
Thatcher took no heed of the warning and cleared the weapon from her holster.
The Russian aimed and fired, the bullet hitting Thatcher's forearm -- the impact sending her gun flying from her hand, and spinning her around in agony. Petrovsky placed his left arm around her neck, with his left thumb in the hollow of her throat and the muzzle of the Makarov pressed into her right side. "I didn't want to do that, woman, but you forced me. The fault is yours if you bleed to death." He hadn't wanted gunplay in the hall. When the guards had been disposed of, he had intended to attach the silencer before shooting MacDougall. The damned gunshot had echoed through the hall, and now one of these people was bound to call the desk for the police.
"General MacDougall," he called. "Please do us the honor of coming out where I can see you. Have the dignity not to hide behind the skirts of this courageous, but foolish woman."
The General stepped out into view. "Why are you doing this?"
Petrovsky turned the pistol towards the older man. "General, you and the others all received communiqués about my grievances with each one of you. You all chose to dismiss me as a crackpot. Now you know I am deadly serious. Each one of you is responsible for taking the life of my beloved wife. I now repay you by taking yours. Goodbye, General." The Makarov's blast was deafening in the confined space. The impact of the bullet knocked the General straight back and onto the floor.
* * *
The elevator carrying Benton Fraser and Ray Vecchio was just settling into place at the 16th floor when they heard the sound of a gunshot. As the doors opened, Fraser jumped out into the hall, reaching for his sidearm.
"Benny," Ray cried, "don't...." But it was too late to stop the Mountie.
Petrovsky stepped into the hall, still holding Thatcher in front of him. His gun was already pointing at Fraser. "Don't do it, Constable," said the Russian. "I'll kill you this time, if you force me to. Just drop the weapon and step this way, please."
Fraser did as he was told. "Are you all right, sir?" He asked the Inspector.
"I'm shot and I'm bleeding. Does that sound like I'm all right, Fraser?"
"You're still talking, sir. It could be worse."
"Yes, you're right," admitted Thatcher. "Thank you for your concern. Our friend here could have killed me, but hasn't...yet."
"That's enough talk for now, you two. Now, move with me. We're going to the roof. I have no intention of being trapped in this room. Carefully now."
He backed up with Thatcher towards the stairway door, motioning Fraser past him. "Up, Constable. To the roof."
Ray had heard the Russian mention the roof. He pulled Shepherd's cell phone from his jacket pocket, hit the 1 and put the phone to his ear. Shit. Nothing but buzzing. Damned elevator shaft. Between the metal walls of the elevator, the concrete block walls of the shaft and all the electrical conduits running up and down all the elevator shafts, the signal probably wasn't getting out. He'd have to wait until he hit the lobby.
Christ, one of these days Fraser is going to wind up dead. Ray had heard the old expression, Look before you leap, since he was a small child. Either Ben had never heard the expression, or else had just learned to ignore it.
It seemed like an eternity, but the car finally reached the lobby and the doors opened. Ray hit the 1 on the cell phone again, as he ran through the lobby to the street.
"Shepherd," he heard at the other end.
"Jim, it's Ray. Your rambling Russian is here in the hotel."
"What! He can't be. The cops have him bottled up in the church. He killed a cop here."
"Well, I'm telling you he's here. He's shot that General MacWhatshisface, and he's taken Benny and Thatcher to the roof."
"Shit," said Shepherd. "What's the matter with me? This is an authentic castle. I'll bet there's a secret way out of there we know nothing about. He's been counting on us to waste time here." He beckoned to Davis.
"So what do we do?" Asked Ray. "The SWAT team can't do much in this instance. It would take a human fly to climb the outside of this hotel, and the police chopper can't get near it either. It's too damned windy."
"I guess that drops the hot potato in my lap, then. Listen, I need you to go up the roof stairs and keep him talking if possible. Don't let him see you, just let him know you're there and that you're not going anyplace." Davis joined him and they headed for the car. "Ray, what's the closest building to you that's higher than the hotel roof?"
"The Carstairs Office Tower on Lexington. It's thirty floors."
Davis started the car and headed out.
"How tall is the hotel?" Jim asked.
"The 16th floor, where the General was, is the top floor."
"Okay, that means there's a utility floor above that with the air conditioning system and the water tanks that keep the building water pressure at a normal level, and then the roof above that. Eighteen stories. How far from there is the office tower?"
"About five city blocks or so. I'd say a good half mile."
"It'll have to do," said Shepherd. "Do me a favor. Get a hold of the head of Carstairs' security. I'm going to need someone with keys to everything. Let them know we're coming. I don't want to have to recite the Gettysburg Address to get in."
"You got it. Good luck, Jim."
"You, too, Ray. You, too."
* * *
It took ten minutes of Davis' maniacal driving to get to the office building. The two men jumped out and popped the trunk. Shepherd grabbed the XR-9 and Davis grabbed the heavy molded case. A large man in a uniform met them at the front door.
"One of you guys Shepherd?"
"I am."
"I'm Ron Forbes, the Security Chief. CPD said you were coming. Something about a gunman?"
"An assassin, Chief. On the roof of the Hyatt. I'm going to take a crack at him from here. I wish there was a better way."
"Call me Ron. So you need roof access, then?"
"No. This roof is too high for a shot at a target on an eighteen-story roof. I need something on the Hyatt side of the building, somewhere on the 20th or 21st floors with a opening or removable window, if possible."
"There's a suite being renovated on the 21st floor. A new tenant is moving in about ten days from now."
"Sounds like what we need. Let's see it. Hopefully the angle will be right." The security chief led them towards the elevator. "That looks like some gun," he said.
"It is, but you never saw it," said Shepherd. "What about the windows?"
"I won't know until we go in. What if they don't open?"
"I need a hole to shoot through. We can cut a hole if necessary."
"Gee, I don't know...."
"Look, Ron," said Jim, "we don't have time to get the okay's from the world on this. If anything gets damaged, it'll be paid for. Trust me."
"Okay, it's your call," said Ron.
The three men entered the elevator and headed for the 21st floor.
Ray moved slowly up the utility stairs past the locked utility room doorway, then looked up the roof access stairway. The door was ajar; it looked like the lock had been shot out, so now it wouldn't close. He waited a few minutes until his eyes became accustomed to the dim light in the stairway. He drew the 9mm out of its holster, and moved up a couple of steps very slowly. He suddenly heard distant voices.
"Ow! Damn it, Fraser, that hurt!"
Ray smiled. How bad could her majesty be hurt if she was bitching in her usual fashion?
"We have to make the bandage as tight as possible, sir. Otherwise, it won't do much to staunch the bleeding. It should work. There's no bright blood, so I don't believe the artery was affected."
Good old Benny.
"Ow! Goddamn it!"
Some things never change.
"Strange, isn't it?" Asked a voice Ray didn't know. It continued, "How healing seems to require pain, and yet healing wouldn't be necessary if one wasn't hurt in the first place?"
Obviously the voice belonged to the Russian, and he didn't sound anywhere close to the roof door. Ray moved slowly up two more stairs. Now he could see a faint light through the gap where the door was sprung open. Ray decided to stay where he was, as he was still slightly below the doorsill. If the Russian shot through the door, the chances of Ray getting hit were relatively low. Now what the hell was this guy's name? Peter something? Petravich? Petrovsky! That was it. He called loudly, "Petrovsky. Can you hear me?"
"I hear you," said the Russian. "Who are you?"
"This is Detective Ray Vecchio of the Chicago Police Department."
"Ah. Welcome aboard. The second of the three musketeers arrives. Aramis, first, in the person of Constable Fraser, and now Porthos arrives. That just leaves our Athos, who would be personified by Captain Shepherd. He is not with you? A shame. I wonder where he could be?"
"So do I," muttered Ray.
"There's a bridge over the water.
I can see it like a rainbow.
If you love me I'll be waiting.
Take me home to the other side."
Joe Cocker's
"Take Me Home"
S. Kipner / J. Capek / M. Jordan
Bob Davis finished cutting the large circle in the glass while Shepherd made his preparations for the shot. The angle of fire was better than expected.
"Almost done, Bob? We need to check the wind velocity."
"It's just about through, Shep. Ron, tap that side, will you?"
The security chief lightly tapped the plate glass with a soft rubber mallet. Davis had his left hand on the suction cup handle and moved it just enough for the men to hear the scritch as the circular piece pulled away from the main plate, leaving a nice circular hole, two feet in diameter.
"Good," Shepherd said. "Now get me the wind reading."
Davis took a glass tube wind gauge out of the case and held it in the wind to get a reading. "It's varying between twenty-five and thirty-five mph, Shep. Gusts are higher. I'd say over fifty." He put the wind instrument away and picked up the night-vision binoculars.
"This damned building's design causes a strange airflow around it," said Jim. "I'm surprised the windows stay put."
"They don't always," said Ron. "Once in a while one of them gets sucked out of the frame and shatters on the street. The insurance company hates this building."
"The old John Hancock building in Boston was worse than this." He reset the starlight scope to compensate for the wind. He checked the calculations again with the calculator. Gusty conditions were tricky -- you had to average too many variables.
He made his ammo decision. The shot had to be effective the first time. He took one of the exploding tip cartridges, inserted it into the rifle, and slid the bolt closed and locked it. He got down into a prone position and made some minor shifts in that position until he felt locked in, but comfortable. He slowly moved the rifle and tried to center the scope on Petrovsky. The man was currently walking about that section of the roof. The Thatcher woman and Ben were along the edge of the roof nearest Shepherd and as Petrovsky moved back and forth, it occasionally put one of the hostages between the Russian and Shepherd's rifle.
"Shit. Move back over to the right, Misha," said Jim.
"His mouth's moving, Shep," said Davis. "Who's he talking to?"
"I'll bet I can guess," said Shepherd. "The CPD's resident wiseass."
* * *
"You're wasting your time, Detective," Petrovsky called out. "I'm not going to give myself up and spend the rest of my life rotting in an asylum. The military would probably give me the death penalty. However, I have no desire to be choked to death by cyanide gas, or electrocuted. Their laws no longer allow the single shot through the back of the head. A shame. It was quick."
"Maybe," yelled Ray, "but all the branches will be fighting over you. You could be a permanent guest in Leavenworth for years. Think about it, Petrovsky. Shepherd says you can't go home again."
"What does he know for certain?"
"His boss in Washington talked to the Russian ambassador. The Russians aren't happy with your vendetta. They don't think they can trust you any more, and you know what that means."
The Russian was silent for a minute. "Yes," he finally said. "I know too well."
He looked past the woman and the tall Mountie. If I were Shepherd, where would I be? He smiled, and slid the action of the pistol open and cleared the chamber of the loaded cartridge. He suddenly snarled and ran over and jammed the gun into the Mountie's chest.
* * *
"Shit, Shep. His mind must have snapped," said Davis, watching through the night-vision binoculars. "He's acting crazy."
Shepherd was able to line up a shot as the Russian was standing still. He took a breath and let half of it out as the instructors always emphasized. He put his finger on the trigger, and put a slight pressure on it. The damned shot was going to be closer to the Mountie than he hoped. All he could do was hope that Ben didn't move.
* * *
Ben was surprised at the change in the Russian's behavior. He didn't dare move as the gun was right against his chest. He also knew that there was a better than average chance that Shepherd was looking through a sight at them and didn't want to risk getting hit by the shot.
"They'll kill me if I go home, Ben, and I'll be imprisoned or executed if I'm apprehended here. I've done what I came to do. It's time to join my Sharra, but I can't do it myself. Someone must do it for me. Another professional." He looked over Ben's right shoulder and whispered, "Take your shot, James."
* * *
Shepherd squeezed the trigger slowly, until the weapon fired.
* * *
Ben heard the bullet zip past his right ear like the buzz of an angry hornet. It took Petrovsky through the right eye and the explosive tip killed him instantly as the bullet fragments ripped through the brain tissue. His head snapped back from the impact and his body collapsed on the rooftop.
"Ray!" Ben called. "It's over, you can come up. If you have your phone, could you call an ambulance?"
Ray bounded up the steps. He saw the body slumped on the tar, then looked toward the Carstairs building and waved.
As he was flipping open his phone to make the call, Ben said, "Ray?"
"Yeah, Benny?"
"Petrovsky knew."
"Knew what?"
"He knew Jim was up there. He set himself up for the shot."
Ray stared at him. "Jesus," he said, shaking his head. Then he dialed 911.
* * *
Shepherd sat up after making his shot and looked at Bob Davis. "He knew, Bob. Petrovsky knew."
"You mean he let it happen? How can you be sure?"
"He looked almost directly at me as I was pulling the trigger. I think I saw his mouth form the word, 'James'."
"Holy Christ, why?"
"His vendetta was ended, but he couldn't go home, and he couldn't stay here. What choice did he have? Where the hell could he go? The killing was out of his system. I don't think he had it in him to kill anyone else, including taking his own life. He wanted to go where he could be with his wife. In a way, he set up this shot as much as I did."
"How the hell could he know it would be you? There's no way he could get that information. Hell, only the people in our group know what you can do. Even the rest of the army doesn't."
"I don't know, Bob. I just don't know."
They packed up their equipment in silence.
The inquiry went on for more than a week - eventually turning into a multi-national conclave. As the Canadian government was involved, they offered the Consulate as a meeting place. Attending were the Canadian Consul General; the Canadian Deputy Defense Minister; the Regional Director of the FBI; a member of the U.S. state department; the Assistant Commissioner of Police for the City of Chicago; Lt. Harding Welsh of the Detective Division, CPD; Col. Joseph Fitzsimmons, U.S. Army CID; Captain James Shepherd, U.S. Army CID; Inspector Margaret Thatcher, RCMP; Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP; Detective Raymond Vecchio, CPD; and in an announcement that had originally shocked all but Thatcher, General Alan MacDougall, Canadian Army.
It was revealed that the Inspector had brought one of the new lightweight kevlar vests and insisted over the protests of MacDougall that he wear it under his uniform shirt. The bullet had still almost penetrated the vest, cracking the General's sternum and severely bruising the chest area. He had also suffered a minor concussion from the impact of his head on the hotel floor when the shot knocked him down. He sat next to his good friend the Consul General and continually lavished praise on Inspector Thatcher for her incredible foresight. It reached a point where Ray started getting nauseous listening to it.
Shepherd, Ben, Ray, and Thatcher gave major testimony.
Additional testimony was heard from Lt. Welsh, and Officer Sharon Cerullo, CPD; Commander Douglas Sherman, USN; Bishop Alexander Lowe, Roman Catholic Diocese of Chicago; General MacDougall; and Col. Fitzsimmons along with Sgt. Robert Davis, Cpl. William Edwards, Cpl. Arnold Woodford, and Cpl. Sherry Michaels - all of the U.S. Army CID.
Some interesting information had been revealed in the course of the inquiry. A random sweep by order of Col. Fitzsimmons had discovered the tap in Sherry Michaels phone line and was traced to the office of Lt. Victor Zelasko. Under intense interrogation, it was discovered that Zelasko was in fact a KGB mole that had been passing CID information on to not only Petrovsky, but also the KGB for months. Zelasko was currently incarcerated in Leavenworth, Kansas. He would remain there until such time as he could be exchanged for any U.S. or Canadian prisoner that might be discovered to be in Russian hands.
On the final day of the conclave, one more testimony was heard. The Russian ambassador from Washington, D.C. made a surprise appearance. He wanted to reiterate that Russia had no affiliation with Petrovsky, and that this vendetta was of a personal nature. He also wanted to apologize to the two nations for the deaths of their people and hoped that this would not affect the peace that the nations now enjoyed with each other.
Russia had recently created a new medal called the Medal of Peace. It was given to those who had given their all to keep the peace and the freedom that the Russian people now enjoyed a reality. He thought it fitting that the Russian government had approved the awarding of four of these medals to the four individuals who had put themselves in the line of fire to end this catastrophe.
He was proud to award the medals to Captain James Shepherd, Constable Benton Fraser, Detective Raymond Vecchio, and Inspector Margaret Thatcher.
"I beseech of Mary and Jesus
That the great come home again
With long dances danced in the garden,
Fiddle music and mirth among men,
That Kilcash the home of our fathers
Be lifted on high again,
And from that to the deluge of waters
In bounty and peace remain."
"Kilcash"
Version: Frank O'Connor
His excellency, Bishop Alexander Lowe, conducted the 11:00 AM funeral service at the Church of St. Francis of Assisi for Monsignor Thomas O'Reilly. Many parishioners remarked afterwards that they had never known the normally reserved Bishop to show any emotion, yet there had been Bishop Lowe, voice shaking, and tears streaming down his face, reciting the ritual mass for his old friend.
The highlight of the service was the Bishop's tale of O'Reilly's past in Ireland, and his decision to enter the priesthood in order to help alleviate the sufferings of others, hoping for expiation of his own sins. He told the parishioners of how O'Reilly had died, valiantly trying to prevent the deaths of others. His quoting from the book of John, "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends," filled their hearts with pride for their Pastor.
St. Francis Cemetery was on the opposite side of the parish. The procession reached the burial plot at approximately 12:15 PM., and about 200 people gathered for the committal service.
Attending the service, though standing slightly apart from the parishioners, was a foursome consisting of a gentleman in an Armani suit, another in the dress uniform of a U.S. Army Captain, a third in the dress uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and next to the Mountie, a large white wolf.
"All right, where the hell is he?" Sharon Cerullo asked Shepherd. "You said he'd be here."
"He will be, Sharon," said Shepherd. "Trust me. Hey, this is quite the place."
"Yeah. It's early yet. This place will really wind up in about an hour or so."
In just a month-and-a-half, The Best Of The West had become the most popular club in the area. Whether it was just the novelty of country/western dancing, the audio/video system playing Country Music Television in surround sound, the real Texas atmosphere, the mechanical bull, or just a chance to kick up one's heels in jeans and cowboy boots - no one was sure.
Sharon looked at Shepherd. "Are you sure he's coming?"
"I'm sure. I helped him pick out an outfit. After spending that amount of money, he'll be here."
"Hi, Jim."
"Elaine...hi," said Shepherd. "I didn't know you'd be here."
"It's the first chance I've had to check it out. Anyway, are you kidding? I wouldn't miss the chance to see Ray dressed like a good ol' boy. You look pretty authentic. Is Ray gonna look half as good?"
"Yeah. That's why I helped him pick out his stuff. I was afraid if I didn't, he'd end up dressed like the rodeo clowns."
She laughed. "Hey, when do you ship out?"
"That's a naval expression, dear girl. I fly out tomorrow night."
"We're gonna miss you around here. You make sure you come back and see us, y'hear?"
"I will," he laughed. "Are you picking up a Texas drawl?"
"Just in here. Hey! There's Ray...Omigod, look at him! Yeeehaa! Get in here, cowboy!"
Ray walked in dressed in black and silver jeans, a black shirt with silver buttons and red and white rhinestones on the shoulder and back yokes, a black rodeo-creased Stetson with a silver concho hat band, a silver and coral bolo tie, black leather belt with silver buckle and tip, and silver-gray lizard hide cowboy boots.
"Wow!" Elaine yelled. "Look at you. You look great. How do you like it?"
"Okay," Ray said, "but I haven't gotten used to the boots. I feel like a sailor just ashore, trying to get his land legs back. Hey, Jim. Thanks again for helping me pick this stuff out."
"Glad to do it," he said. "Sharon wasn't sure you were coming. Where the heck did she go? There she is. Hey, Sharon! Get over here!"
"Oh, my God," said Sharon. "Ray. You look fabulous! C'mon. They're just starting an intro line dancing class over there. Let's go. It'll be fun."
"Uh...okay, I guess." He looked at Shepherd and Elaine.
"Go on, Ray. You owe the girl - remember?" Asked Shepherd.
"Yeah. I have the feeling it's gonna take a long time to pay off that debt." He walked off with Sharon.
"Jesus," said Elaine, watching the couple walk away. "He looks like a steer going to the slaughterhouse."
"He'll warm up," said Jim. "Hey, look who's here."
They both turned to see Ben Fraser and Margaret Thatcher come in.
"Hi," said Elaine.
"Good evening, Ben, and good evening to you, Inspector," said Shepherd.
"Hello, Jim...Elaine," said Fraser.
"Good evening," said Thatcher. "Captain, I understand that you're leaving us tomorrow."
"That's right, Inspector, I fly out tomorrow night."
"Well," she said, "I realized with everything that's happened this past week with the inquiry and all, that I never thanked you for what you did when Fraser and I were on that rooftop. I want to apologize for that. Please accept my thanks."
"Gladly. And I'm glad there was no permanent damage to the arm. Are you staying? Can we get you something?"
"I'll stay for awhile. When Fraser told me that Detective Vecchio was going to be coming here, I had to see it for myself. I always assumed the man even slept in those Armani suits."
"You might not recognize him, Inspector."
"We'll see. Fraser, I'll get a table."
"Fine, sir," said Ben. Thatcher moved off to find a table. Elaine made a face.
Shepherd had to laugh. "She seems in a pretty good mood," he said.
"She is. We both just received meritorious awards from the government for heroism. It will look good in the Inspector's record."
"Good for you both. God, you two look like bookends wearing those slings on opposite arms. Aren't you a little over dressed for this place?"
"Well, I am wearing a Stetson, though not the correct style for in here, I expect."
"True, but I mean the dress reds. Aren't you off duty?"
"Yes, but I always dress up when I go out for an evening."
"Ben, in here you could wear your flannel shirts and those hunting twills with suspenders and nobody would care."
"Really. I'll remember that. I better go see to the Inspector."
"Okay, we'll see you in a few minutes."
Ben smiled and went over to where Thatcher was seated.
"How about it, Elaine?" Shepherd asked. "Shall we try out the line?"
"Let's," she said, smiling.
They headed for the dance floor.
"Who can say what might have been.
We gotta play out the hand we're given.
Take a ride to the place we're driven.
Any way the wind blows.
And we can't see around the bend,
We never know where the road might end.
We just go any way the wind blows."
"Any Way The Wind Blows"
"Did you enjoy your stay, Captain? And were your accommodations satisfactory?"
"Everything was fine, Mr. Cavanaugh. You have a nice hotel here. Not the glitz of the big boys, but I'm not into that anyway. Your place is comfortable. Next time I'm going to be in town, I'll call you first."
"Thank you, Captain. And call me Charles. We're all like a family in this hotel."
"That you are, Charles," said Shepherd.
"I have something that was left for you some days ago, Captain. I was asked to give you this only when you checked out." He set a box on the counter, and an envelope addressed to Shepherd. The box looked like it contained a quart bottle of some sort of liquor.
"Thank you, Charles. I'll wait over here for my ride."
"Very good, sir. Please come again."
"You can bet on it. Thank you." Shepherd sat down in a chair in the large foyer.
He opened the envelope and removed a letter written in a fine hand. By the time he'd finished reading the letter, he was shaking his head.
"Well, I'll be damned," he said.
* * *
Ray pulled up into an airport parking space labeled Authorized Vehicles Only and tossed his Official Police Vehicle sign on the dashboard. He got out of the car along with Ben, Dief, Shepherd, and Elaine.
Jim checked his larger bag in and picked up his boarding pass. He carried the smaller flight bag. They flashed their ID's at the security guards and passed the security checkpoints. At the gate boarding area, he checked in with the boarding clerk. She gave him his seat assignment, and told him that the flight would begin boarding in about five minutes.
He walked back over to his four friends. "Boarding in about five minutes."
"If you ever want to leave that stupid army for a real job," said Ray, shaking hands, "let me know. I think even Welsh would welcome you."
"Thanks, Ray. I appreciate it." He turned to Ben. "Watch this guy, Ben."
"I try," said the Mountie. "Take care and keep in touch." They shook hands.
"I will," said Jim. He squatted down in front of Dief and ruffled the fur on the wolf's head. "You keep an eye on both these guys, Dief." The wolf gave Shepherd his paw. Jim shook it and stood up and turned towards Elaine.
"Next time you're in town...." said Elaine. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
"You'll all hear from me when that happens," he said.
Ray grinned at Ben. "They danced almost non-stop until they threw us all out last night. You should have stayed longer, Benny."
"The Inspector's arm started to bother her."
"I figured it was something like that."
Shepherd set his flight bag on a chair and unzipped one panel. He motioned them all over.
"This was left for me days ago and was only to be given to me when I checked out." He took the bottle and the letter out of the bag. "It's quite a letter. Explains a couple of things. We've all realized by now that Petrovsky wasn't a madman, just a determined one. We also know that he knew what I was going to do. He let it happen. He even took the bullet out of the chamber of his gun so that he wouldn't accidentally shoot Ben when I hit him. I only wish I could have spoken to him sooner or helped him. Here. Read it for yourselves."
Ben took the letter and held it so he, Ray, and Elaine could read it.
Dear James,
If you have received this note and the gift that accompanies it, then I am probably dead.
I beg your forgiveness, James, for my recent attempt on your life. My memory never associated Captain James Shepherd, USA, with the Jim Shepherd who saved my half-brother Josef Krasteva from drowning in that diving accident in the North Sea. Josef had spoken to me of your shooting prowess and that you were at least my equal or better. I thought that perhaps such admiration was out of gratitude. It was only when you demonstrated your shooting abilities to me personally a few nights ago that I realized whom you must be. I always did have to learn a lesson the hard way. I regret to inform you that Josef died of complications due to pneumonia a year and a half ago.
Please express my remorse to the authorities for the death of Monsignor O'Reilly. I never intended to kill him - I liked the man. He had turned from taking lives to saving them. The warring factions on this earth should adopt such ideals. Father O'Reilly must have been a formidable man in his IRA days. He caught me by surprise and I was forced to shoot him. If he had gotten the gun, he would have killed me - I could see what must have been the old anger in his face.
My vendetta was against only those who ordered the attack that took the life of my wife, Sharra. I wish you could have known her, James. As your American expression says - she was one in a million. If you had only known her, you'd understand what I felt I had to do. I do not apologize for my vendetta. Given the same circumstances, I would have done the same. Only the innocents who were hurt do I apologize for.
I heard your friend Ben Fraser of the RCMP was not permanently damaged. Please express my apologies to him for causing his injury. He is a good man. Also, please give my apologies to Ray Vecchio, the detective whom I attempted to run down. That was due to my anger and frustration. We hot-blooded Russians as you Americans call us.
I had adopted an IRA motto when I started this vendetta. For them it signifies what they feel they owe the British for their oppression. For me it signified the debt I owed the people who I felt were responsible for Sharra's death. There is a third way of looking at the motto -- that of settling a long unpaid debt of gratitude for a friend's selfless act of heroism.
The motto is on the label of the bottle you have received with this note. Please believe that it is a motto I truly follow in your case. Thank you for my brother's life. We have never forgotten. I humbly repay my debt to you.
Goodbye my friend, and thank you.
Misha
"Jesus," said Ray.
"That was written and delivered to my hotel before that final night," said Shepherd.
"Can we see the bottle, Jim?" Asked Ben.
Shepherd unwrapped the bottle and held it so they could all read the label.
Ray said, "Hey, that's good whiskey. Where's this motto?"
Jim turned the bottle around until the motto was in view.
Each of them read the motto in silence.
Let each man be paid in full.
-Randy Govey
This work of fiction is based on characters of the television series Due South, whose copyright is held by the creators thereof in the care of Alliance Communications.
All lyrical references are the property of the artists cited and their various publishing houses.
The author of "The Chameleon" recognized no material profit from the production and/or distribution of this work, which is intended for the purpose of entertainment only in all good faith against infringement of existing copyrights. The events and ideas herein, other than those of the aforementioned creators, remain the sole ownership and copyright of this author. Any reproduction of this work, either in part or in its entirety, is governed only by the following conditions:
- Reproduction in part must contain credit to the appropriate creators (including Alliance and this author).
- Reproduction in its entirety must contain this Statement of Disclaimer and Copyright Notice.
Thank you kindly,-Randy
February 15, 1997 Randy Govey rango@juno.com