Authors: Don Brown
Code 13 (38 page)
ELIZABETH ON 37TH
105 EAST 37TH STREET
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
MONDAY EVENING
The quaint, romantic restaurant, occupying an elegant two-story mansion built in the early 1900s, sat inconspicuously in Savannah's Thomas Square Streetcar neighborhood.
The five-star Elizabeth on 37th
,
considered by many to be the finest among all of Savannah's exquisite dining establishments, was a favorite of AirFlite CEO Richardson DeKlerk.
At Richardson's direction, AirFlite had reserved the place many times, including for the company's Christmas party, New Year's Eve party, and Fourth of July bash. He had also reserved the place for annual board meetings and had hosted numerous dignitaries here.
With the money AirFlite had spent, the company almost had a snap-the-finger relationship with the exquisite dining venue, with Richardson having standing priority to reserve the restaurant almost anytime he wanted, for any reason he wanted.
Elizabeth on 37th also served as his venue of choice whenever he decided it was time to take home some hot blonde for the first time, since the restaurant staff would be tipped more than enough to give them incentive to keep their collective mouth shut. He had reserved the place tonight and was sipping wine alone with his latest fixation
in the elegance of the exquisite dining room, gazing into the sparkling blue eyes of his irresistibly sensual, smiling, and very much married Eastern European secretary.
He reached across the table, and when her hand touched his, he felt an instant spark. So when his phone rang in his pocket, he decided to ignore it, for their burgeoning affair remained in the electric stage. Of course, he knew in the back of his mind, from the many affairs he had experienced before, that eventually the electricity would morph back into a dull thud, like the magic of Cinderella's coach morphing back into a pumpkin surrounded by rats at midnight.
That stage would come, he knew from experience. And when it arrived, because she was his secretary, he would need to take special measures in dealing with it.
He wouldn't fire her. He might have to take harsher measures than a mere job termination if she went ape-ballistic on him once he eventually ended it.
But he hoped drastic measures wouldn't be necessary.
Perhaps he would resolve the post-affair awkwardness by transferring her to another department, or perhaps even to one of AirFlite's satellite locations on the West Coast.
Of course, if she talked, threatened him, or tried to cause trouble, he would deal with all that too. Hers would be a scenario in which she could not win.
But for the time being, until that time came, they would both enjoy the mutual exhilaration and excitement that ignited each time their hands touched or whenever their legs brushed together.
He caught a whiff of her perfume, and it proved so intoxicating that he ignored the phone when it rang a second time. She had taken the time to make herself hopelessly attractive for the occasion in every way, from her perfume, to her little black dress with simple white pearls, to the luscious, subtle pink color of her lipstick. So ignoring the last ring and letting it go to voicemail, he instead leaned into her. Their lips met. He reached behind her head and, feeling her hair, pulled her face in closer to his.
When their kiss ended a moment later, she giggled and gazed at him. “You are such a naughty boss to send my husband to South Africa for two weeks.”
He laughed. “You look so heartbroken, my dear Ivana.”
She smiled, and her hand felt his face.
“I wanted to suggest that you might extend his two weeks to two months.”
“Only two months?”
She unleashed a naughty little laugh and grinned. “You are a bad man, Richardson DeKlerk.”
“Thank you for the compliment.”
As he started to kiss her again, his phone rang again.
He pulled away from her and cursed. “Excuse me, my dear.”
“Don't stop kissing me, Richardson.”
“This must be important. Hang on.” He turned his shoulders from her and pulled the phone from his pocket. A 202 area code, a Washington, DC, number he didn't recognize.
He answered the phone. “DeKlerk here.”
“Mr. DeKlerk, this is Tommy Mandela. Senator Talmadge's chief of staff.”
“Tommy. Why are you calling me from a number I don't recognize?”
“I apologize, sir. It's a security measure. Under the circumstances, we use a computer-generated scrambler to change the numbers around to deter eavesdropping and surveillance. We never know who's listening, and frankly, we can't afford to take any chances. Anyway, you asked me to keep you informed, and the caller ID block got triggered. So I used the scrambler.”
Richardson looked over at Ivana, who sipped her wine and gave him a come-hither look.
He winked at her, smiled, and then looked away.
“Very well. I suppose under the circumstances that's acceptable. Now, why are you calling? Hopefully to tell me that our good senator has done his job and gotten us a vote lined up to approve this drone contract.”
“Unfortunately, sir, the senator still hasn't been able to make that happen. He's requested a meeting with Senator Fowler, but that hasn't materialized yet.”
“Unacceptable!”
“I agree, sir. But I do know he's trying.”
“We didn't get him elected to try, Tommy. We got him elected to deliver. There's too much money at stake for this contract to get bottled up in Congress. Now, I'm paying you a lot of money to make sure he does what we need him to do, and I expect you to deliver.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Does Talmadge know you're calling?”
“No, sir. I wanted to check with you first about something.”
“Does it have to do with the drone contract?”
“Yes, sir. Potentially it does.”
“Don't tell me more delays.”
“Potentially, sir.”
Richardson felt the steam coming from his ears. He got up and walked away from the table.
“What do you mean, potentially?”
“Sir, the Navy reassigned the legal opinion to another JAG officer, a Lieutenant Commander Caroline McCormick. We started routine surveillance of her email. It looks like she may be wavering on writing the correct opinion letter. We've also learned there may be another seventy-two-hour delay, and we don't know which way the opinion will break.”
Richardson cursed under his breath. “So what you're telling me is that we've just replaced one problem with another, that we've got another rogue JAG officer we can't count on to deliver?”
“That appears to be the case, unfortunately.”
He had to be careful about what Ivana heard. He nodded at her, held up his hand, mouthed, “I'll be right back,” and stepped out of the dining room.
“Okay. I don't care how you do it. But take care of this problem. Now. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And one other thing. I've lost patience with Bobby Talmadge. He has not delivered on what he was hired to do, and now we are back to square one. Once you take care of this problem, you tell Talmadge that if the Navy appoints yet another JAG officer who might have any inclination to opine that this contract is anything other than legal, then his political career will be over. In fact, you can tell him I've already put in a call to Joe Don Mack at the Georgia Political Victory Fund, and we are ready to designate Talmadge's replacement if he isn't going to deliver. Are we clear on that?”
“Perfectly, Mr. DeKlerk.”
“Excellent. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some unfinished business I must attend to.”
OUTSIDE LIEUTENANT COMMANDER CAROLINE MCCORMICK'S TOWNHOUSE
NEAR THE INTERSECTION OF HUNTSMAN AND SYDENSTRICKER ROADS
OXFORD HUNT
WEST SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA
TUESDAY, 6:00 A.M.
The single-shot Remington Model 700P light tactical rifle lay in the backseat of the car, which was parked in a cul-de-sac across the street and catty-corner from the target's residence.
One of the best things about this rifle was its short barrel of only twenty inches, which made it ideal to carry out an assassination in tighter quarters, say from the inside of a car. But also, when firing a single .223 bolt-action round, the light recoil made the weapon easy to handle.
The shooter glanced at a photo of his target.
Female.
Blonde.
Blue eyes.
Expected to emerge in a white female naval officer's uniform with a white skirt.
What a waste.
But hey, business was business. And there were other good-looking women in the world. Sometimes you had to waste something good to get to something better.
From this distance, the shot would have to be just right. He knew
that. But the 700P was accurate enough to pull this off, even at this distance, if the babe didn't move too fast and he could nail her at a good angle.
But even if he didn't get the angle he wanted, hey, it wasn't like this was his only opportunity. If he didn't get her today, he would get her eventually.
He tightened the silencer on the end of the barrel.
Check.
He then removed a single NATO-round .223-caliber bullet, held it up against the morning light, and studied it for a second, then brought the round to his lips and kissed it for good luck. Kissing the bullet was a ritual he had started years ago, after his first kill.
The idea of a pre-execution ritual with a bullet came from a story he had read about General John “Black Jack” Pershing, who in the early 1900s was dealing with the problem of Muslim extremism in the Philippines.
Shortly before World War I, there were a number of terrorist attacks against the United States and its interests by Muslim extremists. Some things never change.
Pershing knew Muslims detested pork because they believed pigs were filthy animals. Some of them refused to eat pork, while others wouldn't even touch pigs at all, nor any of their by-products. To Muslims, eating or touching a pig, its meat, its blood, and so on, was to be instantly barred from paradise and doomed to hell.
So to set an example against Islamic extremism, and to set an example for the Islamists as to what could happen to them if they kept up their terrorist tactics, General Pershing captured fifty of the terrorists and had them tied to posts execution style. He then had his men bring in two pigs and slaughter them in front of the now-horrified Muslim terrorists.
The soldiers then soaked their bullets in pigs' blood and proceeded to execute forty-nine of the terrorists by firing squad. Then they dug a big hole, dumped in the terrorists' bodies, and covered them in pig blood, entrails, and so on.
They let the fiftieth man go. And for about the next forty-two years, there was not a single attack by a Muslim fanatic anywhere in the world.
And so the personal bullet routine had been inspired by Pershing himself. The way Pershing had handled that situation was epic. If one planned to kill with a bullet, then it was fitting that the bullet be anointed.
And so, over the years, the actions of the man called Black Jack had inspired his own pre-hit ritual. The best assassin should bond, spiritually, with the death bullet. For an assassination to occur with honor, the bullet and the shooter must become one.
In a strange way, the sensation of the cold casing against his lips felt like a worship experience and brought an electrical surge through his body.
It was as if he and the bullet were one.
Yes! They were one!
He chambered the bullet into the rifle.
He rechecked the silencer to make sure it was secure. He couldn't take the chance that the rifle shot would crack the air. The car's engine would remain running for a quick getaway.
Sitting with the rifle in the driver's side, but pointing the gun across the interior of the car and out of the passenger's side, he hoped the barrel wouldn't be noticeable. That, plus the silencer muffling the shot, should allow him to accomplish the deed without much attentionâif he could get off a good shot.
He held up the rifle, looked through the scope, and brought the crosshairs onto her front door.
All he could do now was sit . . . and wait.
