Too Secret Service: Part Two Read online

  She let out a small breath she didn’t even know she had been holding. “Yes, he was.”

  Wayne nodded thoughtfully. “Wise man.” He patted her knee absentmindedly as he rose. Then he stopped and turned, realizing what he’d done, mouth already open to apologize.

  Catherine laughed, shaking her head. Pointing a finger at him, she said, “Don’t even think about apologizing for that.”

  Wayne shut his mouth for a second, and then said, “Okay.”

  “Do you know how two scorpions mate?”

  Williams smiled. “Old one: very carefully.”

  She stood in front of him, put her hand to his cheek, then kissed him on the other. She beamed at him and noted, “You don’t have to be careful yet; we’re not that close.” She patted his cheek. “For someone who’s been in New Orleans for six years, you sure need to loosen up.”

  He smiled, enjoying the warmth of her hand. After a moment, he closed his left hand around hers and gently took it away from his face. “When we’re not in any danger of being shot at, I will.”

  “Good to hear you’re still able to,” boomed a voice from the staircase. Catherine and Wayne turned. Capt. Williams stood on the stair with his elbow leaning on the banister, wearing the crooked smile of a child eavesdropping on his siblings. He went down the last two steps and said, “For a second there, I was half-tempted to ask Ms. Catherine here to rape you if need be.” He patted his son on the shoulder. “I’m glad I didn’t have to. Come on, we’ll have breakfast: your new toys are going to show up soon.”

  Chapter 33

  7:20 AM EST

  New York City

  Six hours later and an ocean away, the man Daniel Clark had simply called Peter pulled to a stop in front of the rather lavish Staten Island home in the middle of the street. The bars on the windows looked so picturesque they could almost be mistaken for decoration. Peter knew better, so did Angelita.

  Peter looked to his sleeping companion, and he was hit with a sudden desire that they could be officially named “husband and wife” on a public record somewhere, even though he had managed to get a priest to pronounce them as such. The fact that he was officially dead put a cramp in things.

  He looked in the back seat to Blaine Lansing and Jennifer Lane. The two FBI Internet Task Force agents were out cold. They had been once they sent their precious email to that Wayne Williams character. Peter didn’t ask what he had to do with all of it, and he desperately didn’t want to know.

  Peter slid out of the door and quietly closed it behind him. He walked up the pathway between the door and the sidewalk, walking around the profusely blooming bluebeard and late hydrangea bushes and making sure not to step on the lights embedded in the walkway stones. He wondered what the IRS would make of all this, considering that Maria was a mere teacher and that Jonathan was an “adviser.”

  But, he thought, the IRS is probably smarter than to ask, considering whom he “advises.”

  Peter walked up the stoop and rang the doorbell, hoping he didn’t wake anyone up. No matter how much he had in fighting experience, Peter did not want to annoy Jonathan Koenig.

  The door soon opened, revealing a dazzling woman who was five-eleven. A Romanesque nose separated her hazel eyes, which contrasted with her gold hair. Her face looked pale with the lack of makeup: that told Peter she spent far too much time in her job, teaching at a high school in Briarwood. He had seen her in the summer after a decent tan, and at those times, she didn’t need any makeup. She stood there in a full dressing gown like he’d seen on Basil Rathbone in old Sherlock Holmes movies.

  Maria Koenig smiled. “Peter, Daniel told me you were coming. Is Angelita with you?”

  Peter jerked his head back toward the car. “She’s taking a brief nap in the Rabbit. Is Jon up?”

  She shook her head. “He’s out on business, very spur of the moment. Would you like to come in, or are you going to stay outside in the cold?”

  A smile tugged at the right corner of his lip. A brief burst of air shot through his nostril similar to a laugh. “Sure. Let me just get Angelita and our two traveling companions.”

  “The couple Daniel wants Jon to look after?”

  “The same. Although I’m not sure whether or not they’re actually a couple.” He shrugged. “Frankly, I never ask. Could I bring them in promising them coffee or a guest bedroom?”

  “I think we could manage either—whatever they’re up for.”

  “I’ll get them.”

  * * * *

  Al Italia Flight 240 left Heathrow International airport for Rome at three in the afternoon, London time, which just happened to be two hours after Peter arrived in Staten Island. In business class, seats 13A and 13B, sat two people just lucky enough to have gotten those seats, both of whom worked for the United States government. The Italian airline knew them as Mister and Mrs. Mariah Jacobs. The two of them relaxed in the lush chairs paid for by stolen credit card.

  Wayne sat with his feet up, marveling at the mechanized massage devices installed in his backrest. The giant bruise on his back had already died down from a mean purple to puke green and canary yellow; the conveniences in business class didn’t hurt either.

  At his left side hung the weapon his father had managed to “borrow” from his friends in the SAS. It was a very customized weapon made for operations while using civilian travel. It was made of porcelain, much like a Glock 7, but with built-in vents on either side of the barrel that reduced the sound to that of a champagne bottle being opened and a muzzle flash to less than the spark of a lighter. When Catherine first saw it, he had sworn she looked jealous.

  “Don’t worry,” he had said, “by the time this is over, I’ll probably go back to running alongside limousines with an Uzi, and you can keep it.”

  Wayne smiled. Not to mention the full-jacketed armor-piercing rounds. Assuming, of course, there are any left.

  “What are you smiling about?” Catherine asked from the isle seat, curious.

  Wayne glanced over at her. She had looked up from her latest novel—she had borrowed his copy of Dead Simple—and looked at him with interest.

  “Just the stuff that my father got for us.”

  “You mean like the set of bulletproof long johns?” she asked quietly.

  Williams chuckled silently. She referred to the body armor that literally covered the entire body, the top and bottom parts buttoning together at the waist. It was so lightweight it fit under their clothes.

  “Like the bulletproof long johns, as you so gracefully call it.” He let his head fall back against the headrest and sighed contentedly. “I wonder if the patent is still holding up.”

  “Patent?”

  He looked back at her. “Oh, yes. It was an idea that came to me early in the Secret Service. I was so anal at one point, I started designing the President’s wardrobe: vests, blazers, pinstripe suits…Let’s say there are some Armani designers who are still afraid of me. I’m certain they were about to put me away for suggesting the Kevlar underwear, although I’m told the First Lady liked the idea since she had a certain interest in that area…anyway, I was getting dressed for work one day in the middle of the spring, and I was in the middle of putting on a set of long underwear—don’t laugh!—when I came up with the idea for what we’re wearing now. My father was the one who told me to file with the patent office, since I lived right there in the District.” He shrugged. “I’m almost certain proceeds are coming in, although I honestly couldn’t tell you how much.”

  She looked at him wide-eyed. “Do you know how useful this type of body armor is? Hell, make it waterproof and you have the new wet suit design for SEALS.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “That, too.”

  “Too?”

  “Yes. That was the other patent. Frankly, I don’t think I needed it; the original armor is so much the actual suit that anyone who used it would have to pay royalties anyway.”

  “They let you get away with that?” Catherine asked.

  “Why not?
The FBI have the only patent on Hydra-shok ammunition. You seem to forget, I’m on defense. If you come up with a new way of killing people, no way on God’s Earth will your Company allow it to be put on a public patent for people to use. Since the body armor doesn’t blow things up, no one saw any problem with it.”

  “You’re probably rich by now, you know that, right?”

  Wayne shrugged. “Possible. Frankly, my goal in life is not to get rich.”

  “Than what is?”

  He gave a small smile. “Same as yours: to serve.”

  They let that thought hang in the air for a minute, mulling over how true it was. Wayne glanced down at his watch. “How long do you figure this flight is?”

  “About four hours. They haven’t yet upgraded to the latest Boeing eight-oh-sevens yet. It’ll be eight o’clock their time when we arrive.”

  Wayne’s eyes drifted away as he processed his knowledge about Italy. “In that case, I hope we get dinner on this flight.”

  “I suspect so,” Catherine told him. After all, the airline wouldn’t let its passengers—almost all tourists—off so they could discover the restaurants were either closing up or serving light meals. In Italy, the main meal was at noon and dinner was more like an evening snack.

  “Any idea on what we should do first?” Williams asked.

  “This might seem overly self-serving and selfish, but I think slipping into an actual bed would be a good start. You haven’t slept on anything remotely like one in, what, three days?”

  He leaned in close, his elbow on the armrest and smiled, his eyelids half-drooping. “It’s not like I’m the one who decided to sleep on a couch in the Shelbourne hotel.”

  Catherine had an open-mouthed smile, giving him a look of part amusement, joy, and I’m-going-to-hit-you. “I had a bellboy there, and you were the drunken, passed-out husband! I’m surprised he didn’t suggest I simply leave you on the floor.”

  Wayne quietly smiled and let his head drop a little, one curled finger over his mouth. He glanced up and over Catherine’s head. She turned. The stewardess patiently stood there, menus in hand, with a smile plastered on her face. She quietly handed out the menus and gave the wine list to Catherine, even though every passenger received one. She made a point to offer drinks to Catherine and soft drinks to Williams.

  After the stewardess left, Wayne said, amused, “Happy now?”

  Catherine just burst out laughing, Wayne soon followed. Their laughter traveled all the way back to Moniak in coach. He smiled.

  Good. They should enjoy their lives while they still have them.

  * * * *

  Peter opened his eyes the moment the key slipped in the door. He flipped the footrest down on Koenig’s recliner. He flipped his wrist over and took a glance at his watch. It was twelve-thirty. Maria had left over four hours ago, something about a school function she had to attend.

  With a glance at the two FBI agents, he mumbled, “Angelita I can understand—she’s been up almost nonstop—but what’ve these two been through?”

  Peter stood in front of the door when Koenig came through.

  Jonathan Koenig didn’t fill a doorway unless it was a double-wide doorway. He was, technically, of mesomorphic build for his height. Unfortunately for the people who faced him in opposition, his height was six-foot, ten and a half inches. His face was covered by a bushy red beard that did nothing to take away from his piercing jade-green eyes, both of which locked onto Peter the moment he stepped inside.

  “Somehow,” Koenig rumbled, closing the door behind him, “I suspected Dan would send you, especially if he wanted a driver unaware of traffic laws.”

  “Yeah, well, I knew Danny had to call a marker from you when he wanted a Frankenstein’s monster to scare away the Devil,” Peter responded with a broad grin.

  They both broke out into laughter as they shook hands.

  * * * *

  Patrick Cochran pulled to a stop in front of a red light, waiting patiently for it to turn. He wished the CIA could give him one of those flashing bubble lights police used to run red lights and stop signs. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and sighed when someone tapped on the glass. He looked up into the barrel of a gun.

  “Money, keys,” the man ordered, his voice muffled slightly by the glass.

  Patrick shot him a confused look and rolled down the window. “Sorry, I couldn’t quite get what you were saying, could you please repeat yourself?”

  The man in the pullover sweat and hood leaned in close. He was black with mirrored wrap-around sunglasses. “Money, keys,” he said, enunciating each word.

  Pat smiled. If he’s a low-class mugger with diction like that, I’m a Queens College graduate. He nodded and maintained eye contact with him at all times while he reached for the keys with his right hand. With his left, he slowly reached for the barrel out of the man’s line of sight. When his hand touched the key, he made for the gun, wrenching it toward the windshield and half-yanking the man inside. He held onto the steering wheel and the gun as he pressed the accelerator and shot through the intersection, dragging the supposed mugger at thirty miles an hour. He smiled as the man screamed in terror.

  Making this guy scared isn’t going to help me if I wind up smashing into someone at this speed.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Cochran spotted a right turn. He made for it as best he could. Only too late did he realize he had turned into an alley barely big enough for his car, forget a man hanging out the window.

  Patrick sighed and slid over into the passenger seat. Sarah’s going to kill me for ruining this paint job.

  The Deputy Director for Intelligence reached for his cell phone. As he punched in the phone number for his boss, he wondered, Why did someone come after me? I just found out about this five minutes ago. Who would know—?

  In mid thought, he shut off the phone. Who indeed?

  * * * *

  Wayne took a sip of Diet Coke from the plastic glass and set it down on the cup holder. “So, have you given any more thought to exploding the Vatican hilltop?”

  She shrugged. “We know about where the bomb is—or at least where we think it is—thanks to that phone number back at St. Pat’s in Dublin. What more is there to think about?”

  “Like who planted it. If they have any smarts, they have at least another small platoon watching over this one like they did in Ireland.”

  * * * *

  At Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, the metal detectors went off with enough noise to signal a five-alarm fire. It was, of course, no wonder as to what drove them so totally insane: the latest passenger off the plane. He was covered in metal: metal leg braces, crutches, and supports. The only way he might have managed to carry even more metal would have been if he needed an oxygen tank, although that had been thought of and quickly dismissed.

  The airport security guards were still half-tempted to search him. The airport security chief himself insisted on it, but was only stopped by a Msgr. Sottosanti—whose name meant “under saints”. He stood up to the guards with the dignity only a Priest in Rome could have.

  “Let this poor man through!” he demanded. “For such is the kingdom of Heaven!”

  The hunchback’s lupus-scarred face crinkled in a smile.

  Aye, Father, but I work for the kingdom of Hell.

  Fortunately for Msgr. Sottosanti, he didn’t realize what he had done, that underneath the man’s plastic hump lay a weapon meant to vaporize all that the poor priest held dear.

  Chapter 34

  Listening to the past hour’s story would have driven some people half-mad. Jonathan Koenig didn’t have that problem: he already suspected he was half-mad. Some would say that the storyteller was mad. Koenig didn’t have that problem either: he always knew Peter always had the edge in the insanity department.

  By the time the two FBI agents, Lane and Lansing—Two Ls, cute trick, he noted—finished telling their story, Koenig just smiled. “And the idea is for me to protect the two of you while yo
u help this Williams character out— in Europe.”

  “Basically, yes,” Jen answered. “Frankly, we’d pass on the idea if there were any other means. Anything government is suspect. Whoever went after us had perfect FBI identification, knew Blaine had decided to help Williams, and knew where to find Blaine. The only persons who knew about Blaine working with Williams were the Agent who told Director Scofield, and Scofield himself.”

  Koenig nodded. “So they have a bug on Scofield’s phone or he’s in on it.” He smiled, the smirk concealed by his red beard. “Although, given what I’ve heard about Director Scofield, I’m certain some people would say he’s capable of such a scheme. I somehow doubt it.”

  * * * *

  Wayne settled onto his bed, quite content to sleep on a real mattress as he listened to the shower running in the bathroom. He sighed. For some reason he was tired. Maybe he needed to get shot at more often, toughen him up.

  He let his mind wander, releasing all mental controls. It floated, as always, back to the Special Agent in Charge Winston Scofield of six years ago. Despite his less than average height, he had an immense bearing about him, something dangerous. That was even before he had destroyed six years of Wayne’s life.

  Of course, that was also before the weight gain, he smirked. While Williams had seen Scofield on television over the years, he noted the bulk on his old adversary. But the sense of danger remained. Maybe his personality had registered on Wayne, even before he witnessed Scofield’s ruthlessness firsthand. He had the sort of depraved mind capable of making a scheme like the one he faced.

  However, Scofield didn’t have the resources or the power to raise an army and get his hands on nuclear bombs.

  So who does?

  Offhand, Wayne listed a dozen nuts off the top of his head who could afford it. But who was smart enough to implement such a scheme without the CIA catching wind of it? Some Osama wannabe? Somehow, while the idea of some skinhead group in the middle of Montana appealed to him, it didn’t seem like their style. No decent Islamic fundamentalist would even threaten to harm Jerusalem, especially with the Dome of the Rock.