The Circle of Eight (2 page)

Especially
when the night manager was sweet on one of your men.

Stucco,
the man in question, shook his head as he continued to hug himself, walking
about the tight security room, the screens flashing images of the entire hotel.
They were on a babysitting mission, the Secretary of State meeting with various
representatives from the Middle East and other “concerned” states. There had
been a specific threat against him from reliable sources so security was beefed
up beyond the normal Secret Service guards.

“Nah,
just got a shiver. Like someone walked on my grave.”

“I didn’t
know you were superstitious,” said Sergeant First Class Will “Spock” Lightman. “Explains
a few things.”

“Yeah,
like how he tosses shells over his shoulder when he drops a clip,” offered Master
Sergeant Leon “Atlas” James, his impossibly deep voice echoing through the tiny
room.

“Or when
he breaks a mirror it’s bad luck unless he cancels it out by saving a black
cat.”

Stucco
looked at Spock, mimicking his signature trademark by cocking an eyebrow.

“You
guys really need new jokes.”

“Bah,
you just want us to find a new target,” said Spock with a knowing glance at
Atlas.

Stucco
turned to the screen to watch the night manager hurry down the hallway.

“Do you
guys even understand what a figure of speech is?”

“Umm,
the stripper the announcer’s talking about at Sharky’s?”

Dawson
snorted his coffee, trying to remain slightly professional as he kept his eyes
on the screens. At this hour however there was little going on. He had a two
man team on the Ambassador’s door full time, Atlas and Spock were manning the
security room, while he and Stucco were roamers. At the moment they were taking
five.

There
was a knock at the door.

“That’ll
be Maria,” said Stucco, jumping up to get the door. Spock and Atlas exchanged
grins, jumping to the wrong conclusion. Stucco had already told Dawson about
how much Maria Esposito reminded him of his little sister back home, almost “a
spitting image” with many of the same mannerisms. Stucco now seemed to have
taken on the big brother role of being her protector, though she didn’t know it,
her responses to his attentiveness one of what any young girl might have to a
good looking, slightly older man with a gun.

Gaga
crush.

But
Stucco, stuck in little sister mode, didn’t notice, and instead kept leading
her on unintentionally by paying her too much attention.

“Maria!”
he demonstrated as he opened the door. “And how are you tonight?”

Maria
beamed a smile at Stucco then nodded to the rest of the room.

“Tired,
but hoping one day to move up to day manager.”

“That’s
life!” said Stucco, motioning to his chair. “You have to put in your dues
before you get the big seat.”

Maria’s
head bounced in agreement.

“Sometimes
I wonder if I chose the right career. I should have gone into brain surgery or
something.”

The room
was silent.

She
burst out laughing.

“You
guys are too polite. You remind me of Canadians! I’m just joking. Do you think
if I had the grades for medical school I would be here?”

Stucco
laughed as did the others, when Dawson saw something on the screen. He leaned
forward and pointed.

“We’ve
got activity on the Ambassador’s floor.”

Maria
leaned in and looked.

“Oh
Christ,” she muttered. “That’s that asshole Martin Lacroix. Big wig at the
World Bank. Completely full of himself. He’s constantly criticizing our staff,
complains at all hours, makes demands, insists we make things off menu.” She
shook her head. “He’s a pig.”

“And
apparently popular with the ladies,” said Atlas as they watched him groping a
girl one third his age against the wall next to his room. “I’d say ‘get a room’
but that would be redundant.”

“Does
this guy not have any shame?” asked Spock.

“I don’t
know about shame, but he should know that all this stuff is on camera,” said
Dawson.

Suddenly
the girl pushed Lacroix away, slapped him, and stormed toward the elevator.

“Spock,
Niner here. We’re hearing some shouting from our position. Do you have anything
on camera, over?”

Spock
activated his mike.

“Just a
lovers’ quarrel. Nothing to worry about.”

“Roger
that.”

The girl
left on the elevator and Lacroix entered his room, the excitement over. Maria
looked at the coffee service.

“Can I
get anything for you gentlemen? More coffee, something from the kitchen?”

“Don’t
worry about it,” replied Stucco. “If we need anything, we’ll call them
ourselves. You’ve got more important things to do than wait on us.”

“More
important maybe, but not more entertaining,” she replied, casting a glance at
Stucco and blushing.

Stucco
smiled, still not getting it, and pointed at Spock and Atlas.

“Now
don’t you two give her a hard time when I’m gone.”

“Wouldn’t
dream of it,” replied Spock.

“I’m
renowned for being a perfect gentleman,” boomed Atlas.

Dawson
rose from his chair.

“Time we
got back on our rounds.”

Stucco
nodded and was about to say something when Maria’s phone beeped on her hip. She
grabbed it and read the message then hit the speed dial.

“What is
it this time?” she asked, sounding exasperated. She listened, shaking her head
more and more as the person on the other end of the line explained something.
“And when did we last clean his room?”—“And that was after he left it this
morning?”—“And he hasn’t been back until now?”—“And you’re sure we cleaned
it?”—“He said what?”—“Fine. I’ll go tell him personally.”

She
ended the call, looking around the room.

“Sorry
about that. It’s our favorite guest. He’s demanding we send a maid to clean his
room, which was already cleaned, and that she better be sexy.”

Stucco’s
eyebrows raced up his forehead as his head dipped toward his chest.

“Excuse
me?”

“Exactly.
What a pig!” She put her hand on the door knob. “I need to go tell our honored
guest that there is no maid service at this time of night.” She opened the
door. “Let me know if you need anything.”

The door
closed and Dawson watched as one of the cameras showed her heading for the
elevators.

“Man,
she reminds me so much of my little sis,” sighed Stucco.

“Eww!”
exclaimed Spock. “That’s just wrong!”

“Huh?”

Dawson
laughed, opening the door and stepping into the hallway.

“I’ll
explain it to you on the way,” he said, holding the door.

Stucco,
still puzzled, joined him in the hall and they made their rounds mostly in
silence. As they rode up the elevator to the Secretary of State’s floor, Stucco
turned to Dawson.

“They
actually thought I was attracted to her?”

Dawson
nodded, battling to suppress the smile desperate to break out.

“That’s
so wrong!” exploded Stucco. “That’s my little sister! Well, you know what I
mean.”

“I hear
yah.”

“Aw,
man!” muttered Stucco as the doors opened. “My
sister
!”

Dawson
looked left, and all was clear. The Secretary of State’s room was to the left,
but their job was to check the floor for anything unusual then switch off with Sergeants
Carl “Niner” Sung and Gerry “Jimmy Olson” Hudson.

“Oh my
God!” exclaimed Stucco. Dawson’s head jerked right to see Stucco racing toward
Maria as she stumbled out of the pig Lacroix’s room, falling into Stucco’s arms
as the door shut behind her. When Dawson arrived Stucco already had her lying
on the floor, her bloodied face almost unrecognizable, her shirt torn off,
hanging from her wrist, her bra missing, her skirt hiked all the way revealing
her panties had been removed.

“What
happened?” cried Stucco.

“Help
me!” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Did he
do this to you?” demanded Stucco, pointing at the door.

“H-he
raped me!” she cried.

Dawson
stood up, standing back from the scene as he activated his mike.

“Spock,
we’ve got a problem. Contact local authorities. There’s been a rape. We’re
going to need police and an ambulance, over.”

“Spock
here, Atlas is contacting them now. I’ve got you on camera. Please tell
me”—there was a pause, and the voice that continued was subdued—“tell me that
it isn’t Maria.”

“Sorry,
but it is. Better contact the day manager.”

Another
pause, then all business.

“Roger
that. Let us know if you need anything.”

“Better
wake the others, we’re going to be busy here so we’ll need them to cover our
rounds.”

“Done.”

There
was a roar from behind him and Dawson spun to see Stucco kick open the door to
the World Bank honcho’s room. Before Dawson could get there Stucco was already
inside, yelling for blood. Dawson rushed into the room and found Stucco with
the naked man by the throat shoving him toward the ground. The man’s head
slammed into the carpet, and Stucco rained blow upon blow on the man’s face
while screaming obscenities at him, each syllable emphasized with a punch.

Dawson
grabbed Stucco and hauled him off the now crying man, the coward begging for
Stucco to stop. As soon as he was freed of his attacker he scrambled to the
other side of the room, cowering in the corner, covering himself with a pillow
taken from a couch.

Stucco
struggled to free himself from Dawson’s iron grip as Dawson tried to calm him.

“Take it
easy, you got him. The police are on their way,” said Dawson.

“Let me
at him, BD. That bastard has to pay for what he’s done!”

“And he
will. In a court of law. Now how about you go watch Maria until help arrives?”

This
seemed to work, Stucco relaxing slightly.

“I’m
okay,” he muttered and Dawson let him go. Stucco left the room and Dawson
turned to the naked man.

“Now you
just stay put until the police get here, or what he did to you will seem like a
light spanking.”

The man
stood up, still pressed into the corner, showing no shame in his nudity, though
a forbidden locker room glance showed Dawson the man should be. The man grabbed
a robe from the back of a chair and put it on, tying the belt with a snap, the
cowardly SOB beginning to transform into the arrogant pig that Maria had
described.

Dawson
looked about the suite, larger even than the Secretary of State’s, but then
this was the World Bank, unanswerable to anyone on how they spent our money,
its financing in the form of taxes paid by Western governments to the
organization based on treaties signed long ago by people no longer in power,
without the knowledge or understanding of most voters in the contributing
countries.

To his
left there was a large table filled with stacks of files, color coded maps, and
paperwork spread across it. He walked over to it, something catching his eye,
several black folders with what appeared to be a large rose with a Christian
cross in the center, embossed on the covers, the design intriguing.

“Don’t
look at those!” yelled the man.

Which
made Dawson all the more curious, but as a trained soldier, he understood his
job. And this wasn’t it. But it also wasn’t to obey the orders of rapists.

Dawson
looked at the man who had puffed himself out to look far more important than he
had moments ago.

“I must
insist you leave my room at once.”

“Why? So
you can have a shower and try to wash away the evidence?”

“Evidence
of what?”

Dawson’s
eyebrows shot up.

“Evidence
of what?” he repeated. “Are you kidding me? You just raped a woman.”

“I did
no such thing,” said the man, lighting a cigarette in the non-smoking room, the
small plastic signs displayed in several places, not the least of which was the
very table he was standing beside. Dawson had met people like this on many
occasions, almost always government of some type, who thought the rules didn’t
apply to them because of a title bestowed upon them that indicated
I’m
better than you
.

“The
woman lying in the hallway beaten to a pulp and stripped nearly naked will most
likely disagree.”

The man
took a long drag on his cigarette then smiled.

“She was
a willing participant.”

Dawson
wanted to tear the man’s throat out. It would be worth ending his career
killing a man like this.

“We’ll
let the police decide.”

“If the
police set one foot in this room, you and anyone you care about are dead.”

Dawson
took several steps toward the man, raising a finger and pointing at him.

“I
highly
suggest you learn to shut that mouth of yours. You’ll find that threats usually
result in broken bones around me. Understand?”

The
man’s bravado broke for a split second as he took a step back, his hand shaking
as he took another pull on his cigarette. The broken door was pushed aside and
several policemen entered. Dawson stepped aside, the four men spreading out,
quickly searching the suite to see if anyone else was present. A fifth man in
plainclothes entered, his suit and ankle length jacket suggesting he was a
detective.

“I am Inspector
Pierre Laviolette of the Geneva Police. What is the problem here?” asked the
man in French.

Lacroix
immediately began to spout off when Dawson interrupted, pulling out his fake
Secret Service ID.

“I’m
Special Agent White, assigned to the United States Secretary of State’s
security detail. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

Inspector
Laviolette raised a hand, cutting off Lacroix.

“You are
American?” he asked in accented, but excellent English.

“Yes,
sir.” Dawson showed him his ID.