Reciprosity Page 6

  Yonas said, “Mine too,” as he ran off.

  Emergency equipment was rolling up, along with the police. Long tongues of orange flame were now reaching up through what had moments ago been the top two floors. The ragged edges of what was left silhouetted against the after glow of the setting sun.

  I turned to Virna. “The Endowment just declared war on The Family.”

  6

  John Adams looked out of his port-side window as the charter jet passed over Turin, and what was left of the GCE headquarters below. He had paid one of the secretaries on the management staff handsomely for the building plans, access codes, and location of the file cabinet holding the material he was looking for. Stealing the van and uniforms from the Italian Satellite Communications Service was easy, as were the fake IDs. Building the bomb took more effort. It took nearly a month to find just the right bomb maker. A brilliant young man, disenfranchised from his Mafia family over a love affair with his don’s son. He called the bomb his greatest achievement, his capolavoro di morte. And from the view below, the young bomb maker was absolutely correct, thought Adams. He would be remembered—posthumously.

  Adams thumbed through the Lucius Alessandro Cassine file folders on the seat beside him.

  The first one covered his childhood in Fort Worth, Texas and Oakland, California. His high school shooting championships, sports awards, scholastic achievements, and so on.

  The second covered his eight-year military career as an Army CID investigator. Adams closed his eyes. Cassine’s final mission for CID was when he rescued Madelyn Adams from a Mexican drug cartel in 1999. Adams’ sister later died in a courtroom shootout involving Cassine.

  The third folder contained summaries of the consulting work he did for and Italian firm called Cassine Unlimited, following his stint in the military.

  The first summary detailed an Soluzione Oggettiva, or Objective Solution. A high ranking member of the French government had been passing on state financial secrets to the Corsican mafia. His half-eaten body was discovered in a pig-pen on a farm belonging to a mafia capo. The made member of the crime family was still in prison. The words CREED SODDISFATTO were stamped in large red block letters at the bottom. CREED FULFILLED.

  The second summary detailed a similar Soluzione Oggettiva in Italy. A banker who had been systematically siphoning funds from elderly retirement accounts. His trial was short. Resulting in little more than a slap on the wrist, and a return to work after a short hiatus. Two weeks later the banker, the judge and the prosecutor, all members of the scheme, were found naked in the same hot-tub. Faulty electrical wiring was found to be the cause of death. It was also stamped CREED SODDISFATTO.

  The remainder of the summaries detailed similar accounts of assignments in Europe—nine, to be exact. Each was stamped CREED SODDISFATTO.

  The twelfth Soluzione Oggettiva summarized how Lucious Cassine tracked his targets across Europe to the States. This one drew Adams’ interest because the objective solution took place in California. San Francisco, to be precise. He was certain this was what his client was looking for.

  The final folder included copies of Cassine’s marriage certificate to Annie Michel, and his wife’s death certificates. The deeds to his farm and a property in California.

  Adams closed the folder, reclined his seat, and closed his eyes. He was tired and they would be landing in three hours.

  * * *

  I took Virna by the hand and led her through the crowds gathering to watch the spectacle. I wanted to be far away before officials began detaining witnesses for statements. Being at the epicenter of a crisis like this is not my idea of fun times in beautiful Italy. Particularly since my actions led to the destruction of Don Vittorio’s prized jewel. The Family could forgive errors of judgement if restitution was forthcoming. The only restitution I could offer was the heads of John Adams and the other Endowment scions on a silver platter. And that was exactly what I intended to do.

  Most of the GCE armored vehicles had been removed from the basement garage just in case the entire building collapsed. They were all neatly parked in a distant parking lot. Gino, our Oscar nominated lobby guard was guarding them.

  “There’s our best actor nominee. Mind if we take one, Gino?” I said with a big smile and a pat on his shoulder. “We have a meeting with Don Vittorio...”

  Gino didn’t return my smile. “I know. We’ve been ordered to find you and to tell you not to leave until Don Vittorio arrives.”

  Shit! Just not my day—or his. My hand was still on his shoulder. I quickly converted it to a choke-hold and slowly lowered Gino’s limp body to the ground.

  “Will he be okay?” Virna asked.

  “He’ll wake up in about twenty minutes. Let’s see if there are keys in these vehicles.”

  They were. We climbed into an SUV and drove off into the night. Virna couldn’t resist ruining our momentary good luck. “You do realize GCE can track all its vehicles?”

  “Killjoy. How far are we from your apartment?”

  “Ten minutes. Turn right at the next street. Why? All my cloths are in California.”

  “Good point. Do you have any money stashed away there? Extra passport?

  “Extra condoms, will those do?”

  Funny. “Your car is still there, isn’t it?”

  “No. My other boyfriend is borrowing it. I told him to keep the fees current in case things didn’t pan out with you.”

  “Really?”

  “Take the next left and then the next right. What do you think, Luke? Sometimes I think I give you too much credit. Of course I have cash. I even have credit cards, and ID and passport under an alias. Every member of the Family seems to. I know you do because I read the transcript from the Novak trial. You were, or still are an investigator for the AISE—Italy’s crappy version of the CIA. You’re also a member of the French DGSE, and INTERPOL.”

  “Don’t forget I’m soon to be Mr. Pieralisi.”

  Virna laughed. “Sorry, Luke. I still get scared every time we narrowly escape death. We can still use your name on the marriage certificate.”

  I wasn’t kidding. “I wasn’t kidding, sweetheart. I don’t have any ID or cash. Hell, I don’t even have cloths that fit. What’s the name on your fake ID?”

  “Lisi.”

  “Your’e joking?”

  “Nope. I figured if my namesake could change her’s from Pieralisi to Lisi, so could I.”

  We were approaching her small apartment complex when she said, “Stop the car.”

  “What?”

  “That man standing near the white Peugeot. I recognize him. He’s one of the GCE escorts.”

  The man was barely discernible in the dim street lights. Mostly a silhouette. “Are you certain?”

  “No. I’m sorry, Luke. I made a mistake. It’s actually my other boyfriend. I forgot to mention I made a date with him.”

  Sarcasm is Virna’s forte. I need to remember that in the future. “I get your point. Let’s get out of here before your boyfriend sees you and gets all jealous like.”

  I turned the headlights off, backed down the street and around the corner and performed a perfect Rockford Spin before turning the lights back on and driving away. The reverse one-eighty took Virna by surprise and she bumped her head against her door window.

  “Give a lady a shoutout before you do anymore stunt driving!”

  “Sorry. So, new plan. We have no money, no IDs, no phones we can use, no change of cloths...”

  “Don’t forget no friends...”

  “And we need new transportation.”

  “I have an old boyfriend I’m certain would be happy to help.”

  “Seriously!

  “This time, for real, Luke. Take the second left and head south on SP2. He has a nice house just off the roundabout.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Seriously. He owns a new Tesla dealership.”

  Four minutes later we passed one of those electric vehicle charging station popping up all over
. Behind it was a darkened auto repair shop. I pulled in and parked between two other SUVs. We walked the remaining two blocks to her boyfriend’s house. It was nice and large. Nestled among other nice, large homes. In the dark it looked like open farmland behind the neighborhood.

  I placed a hand on Virna’s elbow. “Tell me more about him before we knock on his door. I don’t want any surprises.”

  She smiled at me like I was a jealous child. “It’s not like that, Luke. You’ll see.”

  That’s what I was afraid of.

  She pressed the doorbell. I could hear the theme from The Birdcage—We Are Family—playing. A moment later the door swung open and Nathan Lane was standing before us. I swear, Virna’s old boyfriend could pass for the actor’s brother any day of the week.

  “Mia cara ragazza, vieni qui e fatti abbracciare da Giorgio. Stavo solo guardando le notizie sulla tua azienda...”

  Virna extricated herself from his bearhug. “English, Giorgio. Yes, we just came from there. It’s totally destroyed, but as you can see, we’re undamaged.”

  She spent the next five minutes introducing me, which required more hugs, and explaining the trouble we were in. Giorgio listened with eyebrows raised and a smattering of simpatia italiana thrown in every so often. He offered drinks and food, which we readily accepted, having not eaten since breakfast. Virna continued to describe our predicament as we ate in the spacious kitchen. She left out the bits about our kidnapping and the Endowment. When she was done, Giorgio hurried out of the room.

  Virna and I exchanged glances, hoping we hadn’t made a mistake. Three minutes later he returned with a stack of Euros. At least 5,000. He placed the stack on the kitchen counter and dropped a set of car keys, a cell phone, and a driver’s license next to it.

  “I’m sorry, that’s all I have on hand. The phone is old but still active. The keys are for the black ’S’ in the garage. It’s my daughter’s, but she’s still in school. Third year at Harvard. Going to be a lawyer.” He smiled and puffed out his chest like a true, proud father. “The license is also her’s. You and her look enough alike, Virni, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble. Just memorize the specifics. All the registration paperwork is in the car. It’s fully charged and has a 400 mile range. Buy one the next time you’re in town.”

  Virna hugged him. I shook his hand and said, “You’re a good friend to Virna, Giorgio. Report the car stolen in twenty-four hours.”

  He laughed at the way I said friend. “I bet she told you I was her boyfriend, didn’t she?” I nodded. “She still does that after all these years? Make her tell you the story on the way.” He pointed to his left to indicate where the garage was. “Drive safely, girlfriend.”

  Virna and I split the Euros and stuffed them into our pockets. She picked up the keys and the license. I pocketed the phone.

  * * *

  President Domhnall Christoph was in his private sitting room on the second floor of the Executive Residence—also known as The White House. Sitting opposite was Attorney General Barnabas Nunnelly. The Bulldog and Bar None, smoking cigars, sipping hundred-year-old brandy, and plotting how to stay in power. The election was six months off. An eternity where anything can happen, and often does. Christoph was a terrible president and an even worse human being, and every morning in his mirror he had to convince himself that the man-child who still cried himself to sleep every night, was the greatest there ever was. “You are the world ruler,” his father would proudly tell him as he explained the true meaning of his name, Domhnall. Clan Christoph was ancient, tracing its German-Scottish heritage back to 1068. Even the castle bearing their name dated back to the fifteenth century. In 1996 he renamed the castle, Caisteal Anns na Sgòthan—Castle In The Clouds—to honor his grandfather, Maxfield Christoph, who’s own Castle In The Clouds—Burg der Wolken in the Hartz mountains of Germany—was destroyed by English bombers in World War II. He never forgot the stories of his German cousins and their long range plans to reshape the world. He believed it was his destiny to carry forward those plans. Becoming President of the United States was the first step.

  Christoph and Nunnelly didn’t particularly like each other. But they did share a strong belief that the country was better off in their hands—regardless of how bloody they were. Staring at them from a wall across the room was a reminder of the fate that awaited them if their last-ditch plan didn’t work.

  In the photograph a group of eight men were seated at a large circular banquet table. Their chairs were pulled together so that everyone was facing the camera. Signatures were scrawled beneath each smiling face. The man on the far left wore an Air Force uniform—General Patrick Wayne. Next to him sat Secretary of Defense, William Hedrin. The third and fourth men were the creators of Looking Glass—designer, Bill Prichard, and Thomas Novak, founder and CEO of NovaTech. Number five was William Richard Laenker, founder and CEO of The Endowment foundation. To his right sat Senator Samuel G. Rainey, Chairman Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. The seventh gentleman was James Doolan, Vice President of the United States. The final face belonged to the financier, Nelson Roderick.

  The president reminded himself that the only reason he and Bar None were still living was the fact that they were in Scotland at the time of the gathering. The men seated at the table were not so lucky. Rainey reportedly died from heart failure. Prichard died in an accidental home fire. Wayne was killed in an automobile accident. Novak was murdered. Nelson Roderick shot his wife and then himself. In reality, Rainey, Prichard, Wayne and Roderick were eliminated because they lost faith in the Endowment. Secretary of Defense, William Hedrin, the man who orchestrated those accidental deaths, took his own life. The final two, and arguably the highest ranking of the foundation, Richard Laenker, and Vice President, James Doolan were executed by the traitorous ex-army CID agent, Luke Cassine in the Maldives.

  Laenker and Doolan were perverts, and had their depravities been exposed to the world, Christoph had no doubt he would have been exposed and impeached. A coverup had been the only solution, which meant letting Cassine walk free three months ago.

  Christoph and Nunnelly were the last remaining members of The Endowment, and soon Cassine would be gunning for them—the fucking President of the United States and his attorney general. So they had turned to an ex-FBI agent to solve their problems: Destroy all remaining recordings from the Looking Glass project, and see to it that Mr. Cassine spent the rest of his life in prison.

  Unknown to them, John Adams had plans of his own.

  Nunnelly turned to face Christoph. “What about that other thing? Don’t you think it’s time to unleash them? Cassine could have backups, you know. That family is cagey. Both he and Adams are.”

  Christoph glanced over to a small framed photo on the side-table next to his chair. It was an old black and white group shot of a flight crew standing in front of their British Lancaster bomber. It was taken on the eve of the raid on his grandfather’s castle in Germany in 1944. Only three of the crew still had descendants living today. The pilot, Johny Adams—John Adams’ grandfather. The navigator, Tito Cassine—Vittorio Cassine’s father. And the bomb aimer, Jimmy Cassidy—Luke Cassine’s grandfather.

  Christoph had sworn vengeance on all of them, and anyone related to them. He cursed silently as he studied the crested ring on his right hand. “Yea, I know it’s past time.” He lifted his personal cell phone from the table and punched a quick dial. He waited for a code phrase to be spoken, then he said, “Do it now,” and hung up.

  7

  We were on the A40, driving north toward Geneva and my farm beyond in a small town in France called Thoirette. The drive is normally four hours, but the way Virna was driving we’d be there in three, if we weren’t pulled over by police or didn’t plummet to our deaths first. I was pretty certain Giorgio’s daughter would be finding speeding tickets in her mailbox because speed camera detectors were as prevalent in Europe as mobil phones.

  It was nearing midnight and the sky was clear, the road was empty, and the r
ide was whisper smooth. I told Virna we’d buy a Tesla soon as we were married. She liked that, and I liked that she liked that. What she didn’t like, and neither did I when she brought it up, was a simple proposition.

  “Why would Adams go to the bother of blowing up our servers? He had to realize we had backups, right? The file cabinets are fireproof. They have a waterproof seal. Plus, they were on the other side of the building—although, I’m not sure how they would do if the building collapsed. And anyway, I don’t think he was declaring war on The Family. That would be insane, and he doesn’t strike me as a man who doesn’t calculate all the angles before taking his shot, right?”

  Okay, so it wasn’t so simple. Her premise was sound, but I wasn’t convinced of her conclusion. I was considering counter arguments when a headline popped up on the Tesla dash display. Riding as a passenger was nice for a change and I had been scrolling through the Google news feed. It was not the kind of headline I’d imagined:

  Tiberius Linked to GCE Bombing

  I said, “Oh shit!”

  Virna glanced at the screen. “Who’s Tiberius?”

  “That would be your loving betrothed, sweetheart.”

  She almost drove off the side of the road. “What!”

  “Shush, while I finish reading the story.”

  The report was the same as all the previous stories printed fifteen years ago. A simple cut-and-paste by lazy reporters: Little if anything is known about the assassin—That was because he didn’t exist accept in the distorted mind of Don Vittorio. Tiberius was linked to a number of high-profile cases in Europe more than a decade ago—More handiwork from Don Vittorio to prop up the legend. This is the first mention of his name since then. Many officials believed he was dead, or had gone into hiding—So did I. He is believed to be Caucasian, clean-shaven, dark hair—Fifteen years ago the reports always included a rough sketch of the assassin, again thanks to Don Vittorio. Not so this time.