Crown's Vengeance, The (24 page)

“I did some digging into Spencer Drake. At first, there was nothing that would lead me to believe the man’s a murderer. Filthy rich and fond of beautiful women, yes, but not a killer. It was only after you mentioned the trail of renegade British statesmen associated with Aldrich Securities that I found it.”

Erika was leaning between them, her blonde ponytail tickling Parker’s nose. “Did you find a link between Drake and Waldegrave, their chairman during the Depression?” Parker didn’t have to see her face to know the intensity of her gaze.

“Not exactly.” Nick had found his way onto Kelly Drive, arguably the most scenic roadway in the city. The curving four-lane thoroughfare paralleled the meandering course of the Schuylkill River, sheer rock on one side, a strip of grass with occasional parks that abutted lapping water on the other. It was into one of these small park areas that Nick steered the vehicle. On the river, a collegiate crew team rowed in unison, their elongated vessel gliding across the river’s glassy surface.

When he put the car in park, the interior grew noticeably darker.

“What was that? Did you turn the tint up or something?”

“The windows automatically adjust the level of light that flows through based on outside conditions. Part of the vehicle’s security system is keeping anyone from seeing who, or what, is inside.”

Parker was impressed. “Are the windows bulletproof?”

“Rated to withstand a shotgun blast at point-blank range. Same goes for the body, and the undercarriage is hardened against explosive devices.”

A low whistle escaped Parker’s lips.

“I brought this car because what I’m about to share with you must never be repeated.” A thin manila folder appeared from the center console. “While researching Spencer Drake, I learned that one of his associates is a man named Sir Nigel Stirling, an English lord of some renown. His ancestor founded the East India Company.”

Erika gasped. “You can’t be serious.”

Parker knew the company had been powerful several hundred years ago, but the most recent time he’d seen the name was while watching Johnny Depp in the role of Captain Jack Sparrow.

“In 1600, Queen Elizabeth granted a charter to Stirling’s ancestor to commence operations,” Nick explained, “and they were wildly successful until their dissolution in 1874. As you can imagine, the Stirling family accumulated an immense amount of wealth, which today is under the control of Nigel Stirling, the sole heir to the Stirling fortune.”

Parker loved history as much as anyone else, but how was this information going to keep them alive?

“What does this Stirling guy have to do with Drake, or with who’s trying to kill us?”

Nick removed several sheets of paper, though he didn’t hand them over. “I don’t know who’s trying to kill you, but I can tell you that Nigel Stirling’s grandfather may be the next link in your chain.”

Erika’s eyes locked onto the hidden papers when she spoke. “Was he on Aldrich’s board?”

“He was, for the last twenty years of his life. Horatio Stirling died in 1958, and was soon followed to the grave by his son Arthur, who was Nigel’s father.”

Erika’s voice was heavy with intrigue. “Were they murdered?”

“No, nothing like that. Horatio died of old age, and Arthur died in a car crash. The reason I had to speak with you in person relates to Horatio’s activities in late 1941.” The sheets of paper Nick held were still hidden from view, blank rear sides facing Parker. A group of joggers ran past the car, their conversation barely a whisper through the SUV’s thick windows.

Nick scrutinized the group as they passed, and only when they were well down the road did he continue. “In December of that year, Horatio Stirling was on vacation in the Hawaiian islands. On December 7, Horatio’s wife and children were at their home in Florida, supposedly preparing to leave for the island to meet him. Of course, that all changed when the first Japanese bomb fell on Pearl Harbor.”

For what felt like the hundredth time that week, Parker was trying to connect the dots, but he didn’t have the first clue where to start. “Was Stirling involved with the bombing? Not to be rude, but that sounds crazy.”

Agent Dean’s look said it all. “It does. Until you see these.” Nick turned the concealed papers around to display a color copy of what looked like gibberish.

Before Parker could respond, Erika blurted out, “That’s written in Japanese. I can’t read it, but I recognize the characters.”

An intense squint at the paper confirmed his ignorance. He had no idea what those scribbles meant.

“Correct,” Nick said. “Do you notice anything else?”

Finally, Parker was first at something. “There’s one word in English, and it says
Stirling
.”

Near the top of the single paragraph was the surname, clearly spelled out in English.

“Nice work, Chase. For your information, there is no Japanese form of the surname.”

Erika asked, “What does the message say? And where did you get it?”

“This is a telegraph communication found in the cockpit of a Japanese fighter plane shot down over Pearl Harbor. Pilots would get these printouts with updated information on target coordinates, weather or mission plans. This particular update basically says that
Stirling
has confirmed the American naval forces were unprepared for an attack. The transmission is dated December 7, and was received at seven in the morning. The first bombs fell forty-eight minutes later.”

He and Erika were speechless. Had a British citizen aided in slaughtering over two thousand American troops?

Parker finally found his voice. “Why have we never heard of this?”

“As I said before, this is highly classified. It hasn’t been released, and probably never will be. There are some things that are too volatile for the public to know. Second, and more pertinently, we have no proof that the word
Stirling
refers to Horatio Stirling, or if it even refers to a person at all. Perhaps the word was a code name for some type of stolen technology, or a signal the Japanese developed. No mention was ever found of this
Stirling
again, so all we have to go on is a single transmission.”

Erika was aghast at his explanation. “But if you know Horatio was in Hawaii at the time, and you can connect him to the Japanese, shouldn’t he at least have been questioned?”

“Erika, you have to realize that this information didn’t come to light until several weeks after the attack. Most of the naval base was destroyed, and it took months for it to recover from the damage inflicted by the attack. There just weren’t enough people to dig through all the evidence to get anything done right away. And besides that, the fact that Horatio Stirling was in Hawaii at the time wasn’t known until
a full year
after the attack. This wasn’t, and still has not been, identified as high value information.”

Parker was looking for holes in the story. “In that case, how did you find it?”

“Every year the CIA hires hundreds of interns whose sole job is to scan or manually enter old files into our database. One of those poor saps scanned and uploaded the file that contained this message, so when I conducted my search, it was able to be located.”

A pack of cyclists pulled off the roadway into their parking lot, stopping several spots down from Nick’s armored tank of a vehicle. He eyed them suspiciously, hard eyes unblinking.

“You know,” Erika said, her head between them both, “this actually fits into what we’ve found so far, but on an entirely different level.”

She was addressing Nick, but her gaze was on Parker. “If the message really did come from Horatio Stirling, then we would have evidence of a direct attack on American soil orchestrated in part by a British citizen. This is completely different than everything we’ve uncovered so far.”

What she said made sense.

“None of the other Aldrich members we found were involved in a direct assault on America. Each of them was a behind the scenes operative who set the plan in motion and hoped it would work. Some did better than others, but they didn’t help kill Americans.”

The group of bikers hadn’t left yet, so Nick turned the key and motored back onto Kelly Drive.

The muscular agent shared his plan. “I’m going to take a deeper look into Aldrich Securities, see if there’s anything I can find connecting Spencer Drake and Nigel Stirling.”

“Parker and I can keep digging through the past board members and see what we find.”

“Whatever you do,” Nick’s voice was even more serious than usual, “don’t go back to your apartment. It’s not safe anymore.”

He was interrupted by the shrill ringing of his phone. One look at the device and Nick nearly rear-ended the car in front of them.

“Guess who just went through customs at Logan International in Boston.”

Their voices rang out in unison. “Nigel Stirling.”

“His private jet landed ten minutes ago.”

Chapter 38

For the tenth time in the past half hour, Drake’s call to his hired killer rang straight through to voice mail.

“Damn it, this can’t be happening.”

The number had been given as an emergency contact, only to be used if Drake uncovered the exact whereabouts of Parker Chase or Erika Carr. Drake doubted the assassin had gotten this far in his craft by ignoring such valuable information.

On his desk, the intercom crackled to life, Liz’s voice ringing out. “Spencer, phone call for you.”

“Put it through.”

“Mr. Drake? This is Tom Becker.” His head of security had contacts in law enforcement, and Drake had instructed him to call in whatever favors he had to identify the corpse in Philadelphia.

“Who’s the dead guy?”

A heavy sigh sent Drake’s heart into his throat. “I’ve confirmed it’s not Parker Chase. I spoke to an officer who was on the scene, and the body didn’t fit his description. He described the corpse as exceedingly thin, with buzzed hair. There was no identification of any kind on the body.”

It had to be their man. Somehow, Parker Chase had gotten the better of a trained killer.

“I want you to gather a group of men you trust,” Spencer instructed. “We have a major problem on our hands, and we need to take care of it before this gets out of control.”

Becker responded without hesitation. “Will the elimination be permanent, sir?”

He knew his security chief had enjoyed his time in the military and was not averse to the more gruesome aspects of combat. It was one of the main reasons he’d hired the man. Tom Becker was not afraid to get his hands dirty.

“Without question. For a variety of reasons, this problem must be buried immediately.”

A hint of pleasure tinged Becker’s reply. “I know just the men, sir.”

“Good. You have my personal authority to spend whatever it takes to get them on board and ready to roll. Once the team is assembled, I’ll pass along further instructions.”

“Multiple targets, sir?”

“Yes. And these targets may prove to be formidable. I trust you are capable of handling any adversity that may be encountered, Mr. Becker?”

“I look forward to it, sir.”

When he hung up, Drake found his spirits had lifted. Becker was a hard man, had cut his teeth in the sands of Desert Storm and honed his skills in Somalia hunting warlords. With his skills, Spencer hoped that the last thing Dr. Carr and her boyfriend ever saw was the smoking barrel of Tom Becker’s pistol.

The red light on his desk phone blinked. “Lane Peterson on the line for you, sir.”

Just what he needed. The head of JP Morgan calling for some reassurance. Weren’t people like him supposed to have self-confidence?

“Lane, how are you?”

The short, clipped tone coming through his speakers oozed privilege, though Drake suspected that the blue-blooded New Yorker was all nerves right now.

“Mr. Drake, how are you? I hope all is well at Aldrich Securities.”

“Swimmingly, Lane. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I’m calling to discuss your recent predictions regarding oil prices, which I must say have been spot on.”

Drake had encouraged Lane Peterson, along with several other heads of New York’s largest financial institutions, to invest heavily in the oil futures market, predicting that the price of oil would rise.

“I appreciate your gratitude.”

“I just wonder if what you suggest regarding our clients’ money is wise. Depositors and investors don’t expect our bank to take excessive risks with their funds.”

The man had no backbone to speak of. Risk-averse and conservative, he sounded like a frightened child.

“Lane, you old dog, have I led you astray yet?”

“No, not at all. Though, I do have to admit that I’m a bit worried about what could happen if the price of crude doesn’t continue to rise as you predict.”

“I stand by my recommendations. While we are still able, I believe that in order to maximize profits, Aldrich and every other financial firm should use all available funds to invest in oil futures.”

“Yes, but don’t you feel that some of our clients, particularly the depositors, would be upset to learn that we were taking such risks with their money?”

“I would agree if I thought it was a risk. Lane, this is a guarantee. Look at how much money we’ve made. Would I send you on a path to ruin?” Drake failed to mention that the only reason he was certain the investments were sound was because Sheik Khan had assured him oil production would remain stagnant. That would be his little secret.

“You’ve certainly been correct so far. My only concern is that if oil prices plummet, I would be overextended. As it is, and I’ve spoken with several of our colleagues who are in the same position, I have more of my assets invested in oil than I normally would. Far more, to be truthful.”

That was music to Drake’s ears. The more money Lane and his foolish counterparts dumped into the oil market, the greater their losses when Sheik Khan flooded it.

“Lane…” Drake dropped his voice. “Trust me on this. So far, I’ve made tens of millions, and I’m just getting started. I have it on good authority that OPEC has no intention of increasing the supply of oil. A close friend of mine tells me that the kings and sheiks over there are concerned that by abating this mini-crisis, by helping America and other oil-dependent, predominately Christian nations, they risk losing the support of their local religious leaders, the vast majority of which are Muslim. I don’t have to tell you now influential a cleric can be. It’s a matter of survival.”