Heirs of Cain (38 page)

“No, it’s simply there to connect the jackets. To make sure they all ignite when the timer goes off. My guess is that the timer, battery, and dynamite cap are in this one.”

Cain pointed to the jacket marked
Apocalypse Now
.

“My God! What kind of a world do we live in?” Anna Cohen exclaimed, anger rising in her voice. “What are we becoming?”

“Will it be difficult to defuse?” asked Daniel.

“No. This bomb is efficient, but very simple. Explosives weren’t Seneca’s forte.”

“Seneca?” Anna asked. “That was his name?”

“Code name.”

“Code name,” she repeated. “And you … do you have …” She shook her head. “Cain. Of course. The first assassin.”

Cain carefully removed the five movies from the shelf and set them on the table. He unwound the piece of wire, separated them, picked up the one marked
Apocalypse Now
, and held it to his ear. After listening for several seconds, he put the jacket against Daniel’s ear. “Hear that?”

“Yes, yes, I do,” Daniel answered. “Sounds like a watch.”

“It is.”

Cain opened the jacket and removed the dynamite cap from the plastic. Next, he pulled the wire from the tip of the dynamite cap. Finally, he unwound the length of wire that connected the battery and the wristwatch. It took him less than thirty seconds to render the bomb harmless.

“It’s hard to believe something like this could be so deadly,” Daniel Cohen said, shaking his head. His body shuddered with fear as he stared at the bomb. “Such destructive force in so small a package.”

“It can be terribly nasty,” Cain said. “Knowing Seneca, I imagine he added a few extra touches.”

Cain opened the jacket marked
Animal House
. Buried in the plastic were ball bearings and slivers of glass.

“In the name of …” Anna Cohen’s voice trailed off, leaving her thoughts unfinished.

Cain opened the curtains six inches and looked outside. The sun had not yet fulfilled its early promise, leaving the morning dark and gloomy. That would make his escape much easier. So would the placement of the eight soldiers, who were now standing together near the beach house, talking, laughing.

He was thankful they weren’t assigned to protect him.

“Do you have a pen and a piece of paper?” he asked, closing the curtains.

“Yes, just a second.” Anna moved quickly to the desk, took a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen from the top drawer, and handed it to him.

Cain leaned over the table and scribbled a brief message. When he finished, he folded the paper and handed it to Daniel.

“Tell the president what happened here,” Cain said. “And give him that note.”

“Why can’t you tell him yourself?” Daniel asked.

“I won’t be here.”

“Why?’

“Because I have one more stop to make.”

It was 8:00 p.m. when Cain steered his car into Lucas White’s driveway.

A teenage boy dressed in red Nike sweats listened to his iPod as he walked crisply down the street. His movements, in time with the music he was hearing, were spirited, almost dancelike. He smiled and waved as he passed by the car.

Cain sat still, feeling very weary, very alone. He laid his head back and rubbed his eyes. Only now did he realize it had been days since he’d last slept.

At moments like this, when severe melancholy and fatigue held sway, he relied on nature’s beauty to elevate his sagging spirits. The ocean, a chirping bird, the wind, a soft rain. They were his usual weapons against despair.

But in those truly dark moments, like now, when his inner pain reached its maximum level, he always counted on the sunset to restore his soul. That was his ultimate defense in the fight against despair. There was nothing he loved more than the sunset. Climbing out of the car, he looked to the west, where the fading bright orange sun dominated a fiery crimson sky.

He felt nothing.

No relief, no uplifting of his spirit, no hint of joy.

Nothing except a deep, overwhelming sadness.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he forced his heavy legs to climb the steps to Lucas’s porch. Before reaching for the door, he hesitated, turned, and took another look at the sunset. Nothing. Inner peace continued to elude him.

He opened the unlocked door, stood briefly in the darkened hallway, then went into the empty den. Standing there, listening, he could hear the sound of running water coming from the bathroom. Looking around, he suddenly realized he hadn’t been in this room in nearly ten years, yet it hadn’t changed much since he was last here. It was old, familiar.

Like Lucas.

Being in this room, in this shrine, seeing the evidence of a military man’s great career, did little to lift his trashed spirits. As he surveyed the wall of photos, the weight of despair grew heavier; his spirit sank deeper into depression. He wanted to run, disappear, lose himself in shadows.

But …

“Have a seat, my boy. I’ll be finished in here shortly,” Lucas shouted from the bathroom.

Cain walked behind the desk and looked closely at the Picasso painting. It was a work he adored, even though Picasso wasn’t his favorite artist. Then he looked down at the picture of himself standing next to Lucas, a photograph taken only months before he left Vietnam forever.

So many years ago.

The bathroom door opened and Lucas emerged wearing a silk bathrobe, blue pajamas, and brown slippers. He smelled of talcum powder and after-shave lotion. His eyes, red and swollen, found Cain’s and held them while he filled a large glass with Chivas Regal and ice. When the glass was full, he took a drink, eased behind the desk, and sat in the big leather chair.

Neither man spoke for what seemed an eternity.

“What made you so sure it was me and not Seneca?” Cain finally asked.

“Because you were always the better man. I never doubted it for an instant.”

“Disappointed?”

“Not in the least,” Lucas said quickly. He sipped at the Scotch. “Regardless of what has transpired, I am genuinely fond of you. Always have been, for that matter.”

“You have a peculiar way of showing it.”

“Fate sometimes sends us in strange directions.”

“It’s over, Lucas.”

“So I gathered. I watched the news with great interest this morning and when I heard nothing out of the ordinary, when none of those lovely CNN anchor women informed me that my president had been slain, I could only conclude that the mission had not succeeded. I must admit I was left with mixed emotions.”

Lucas picked up a pencil and began doodling. Just as quickly, he put the pencil down and looked at Cain. “I am curious. How did you find out?”

“Tuez le messager
. It was on a note found in Simon Buckman’s hand.”

“Brought down by a bottom feeder like Simon Buckman. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

“Why, Lucas?”

“My boy, I could spend hours trying to explain the
why
s to you, but I’m afraid you would never understand. Not with that rigid sense of right and wrong of yours.”

Cain sat in the chair across the desk. “Try me.”

“Cutting straight to the heart of the matter, the answer is that I had no other option.”

“There are always options, Lucas. Especially for a man with your connections.”

“My boy, you don’t understand. It’s precisely because of those connections that I was left without options. Without choices.”

“Who, Lucas? Who could put a man like you in that position? And why?”

“I don’t know who.”

“Come on, Lucas. You can do better than that. You’re behind a plan to kill the president of the United States, and you expect me to believe you don’t know who ordered it? That’s asking a lot, don’t you think?”

“Maybe so, but it’s the truth. I don’t know. Faceless men; that’s all I can tell you.”

“Then let’s skip to the
why.”

“Why do you think?”

“I have no idea.”

“Come, come, my boy, put that wonderful deductive mind of yours to work. Think. I am not a greedy man, nor am I unpatriotic. When you eliminate the obvious, what are you left with?”

“Blackmail.”

“Bingo.”

“Who?”

“My answer remains unchanged. I don’t know who.”

“Okay, Lucas, let’s forget the
who
and stick with the
why
. What reason would anyone have to blackmail you?”

“Old markers.” Lucas emptied his glass in a single swallow, then poured a refill. “Outstanding debts.”

“What old markers? What debts? Come on, Lucas, tell me. I want to know. I
need
to know.”

“The assassination of Sadat. The shipment of arms to Iran. Selling secrets to Russia. Dealing in the heroin trade. Giving money and supplies to the Taliban. Take your pick. My sins are many.”

“You were involved in Sadat’s death?”

Lucas nodded. “Sheik Abdel-Rahman ordered the fatwa. I arranged for the assassins to be brought in.”

“Why?”

“I’m a soldier. Soldiers take orders.”

“Are you telling me someone in our government ordered Sadat’s death?”

“Not directly in the government, but closely aligned.”

“This ‘someone’ had the juice to get you involved?”

“That surprises you?”

“Yes.”

“My boy, with your track record, you should be well beyond being surprised.”

“Who, Lucas? Who ordered it?”

“Who? How can I possibly answer that? A plan of that magnitude starts somewhere near the top, then like slime it works its way downhill. No one ever says the words ‘Let’s kill Sadat.’ There’s no paper trail, no taped conversations. It’s never like that. It’s communicated with a nod of the head, the lifting of an eyebrow, a wink. There’s a tacit understanding that ‘this must be done, so make it happen.’ And it happens.”

Lucas sipped more Scotch. “A sordid world we live in; don’t you agree?”

“What about the arms shipment to Iran?”

“I had a hand in it. Not a big hand, mind you, but enough to make me accountable. I had connections on both sides, so it was only natural for me to bring all interested parties together. Once that was accomplished, I performed a few minor functions, then dropped out and left it in the hands of others. Only one or two people knew of my participation. Or so I thought. Then, about six months ago, I received a call from a member of one of those extremist jihadist’s factions. He demanded that I meet with him. At first I wasn’t overly concerned—I figured him for a crackpot, a hot head. But when I met him, I learned otherwise. He had names, places, dates, my signature on a letter directly linking me to the operation. When I saw that, I knew my neck was in the noose. From then on, I did what I’ve done my entire life. I followed orders. Only this time, I served a different master.”

Cain slumped forward, letting Lucas’s words sink in. “And their orders were to kill the president? How could you, a lifelong soldier, even begin to consider such an act?”

“My boy, you haven’t been listening. I had no choice. If they had ordered me to kill Jesus Christ, I would have stood shoulder to shoulder with Judas.”

Cain’s head throbbed; his pulse raced. He felt dizzy, on the verge of throwing up. He leaned back, closed his eyes, took three slow, deep breaths.

Lucas continued. “Although I’m sure this isn’t going to mean much in the way of a defense, I’ll tell you anyway. The president was strictly a secondary player in this little drama. The main targets were the other three. You must understand: there are people in the Middle East who prefer war—the killing, the turmoil. Naturally, they don’t think much of the peace efforts. There is very little money in peace. They would like nothing better than to see any leader seeking peaceful solutions join Sadat in the grave. War keeps the money flowing in.”

“So you called in Seneca?”

“My only hope of avoiding the noose.”

“I’m afraid that bit of logic escapes me.”

“Elementary, my boy. You see, you and Seneca have always been different sides of the same coin. All I had to do was flip the coin. Either way it was bound to come up ‘killer.’ I couldn’t go wrong. Once Seneca was involved, it would only be a matter of time before you entered the picture. I made sure of that. Of course, I needed a reason for bringing you in, which Deke so kindly supplied when he failed to finish off Cardinal. Then I basically got out of the way and let you do your thing.”

“And you were covered either way.”

“Absolutely. If Seneca succeeded, I was off the hook with my Arab friends. If you stopped Seneca, I could hardly be faulted for the mission’s failure. I’d be safe. At least, until they hatched another plan.”

“Which they would have.”

“That’s the trouble with blackmailers. They tend to be very persistent.”

“You should have come forward, Lucas. You should have told someone, trusted some people.”

“Why? So I could watch everything I worked for turn to shit?” Lucas stood and pointed a finger at the wall. “So all of this would be reduced to nothing? So my past would be stripped away like so much dirty wallpaper? No, my boy; that was too steep a price to pay.”

“So you sold your soul to a bunch of terrorist thugs? Seems to me that’s a pretty high price.”

“My boy, I had no choice. I couldn’t fight it. The men who brought me on board for Sadat’s execution are dead, leaving me to face the music alone. Hell, Carter made Sadat a hero in this country. I had no desire to be the lone figure standing there answering for the death of a martyr. And the Iran thing? I wasn’t about to go through the same ordeal MacFarland and Poindexter went through. Or that asshole North. Those Congressmen would have thrown me to the wolves, hung me out to dry. Look what they put North through. He waved the flag, cried, ate apple pie—everything—and he damn near still got crucified. What chance do you think I would’ve had? And in today’s post-9/11 world, how do you think it would have looked when my dealings with the Taliban were uncovered? I would have been portrayed as an old fart trying to make a few extra bucks under the table. Believe me, it wasn’t that way at all.”