Reciprosity Read online

  This time there was a photograph. The caption read: A current photograph of the man believed to be the assassin, Tiberius.

  The photo was recent. It was my passport photo.

  “Isn’t that your passport photo, Luke?” Virna was staring at the screen.

  “Keep your eyes on the road.”

  I gave Virna the dime-store pulp fiction version of the assassin Tiberius. When I was finished she remained uncharacteristically silent.

  We were approaching the Mont Blanc tunnel. I asked if she wanted me to take over. She ignored me. I had lost count of how many electronic toll stations we had passed through without incident. I also had no clue how many times the ubiquitous highway cameras had snapped beauty shots of the Tesla as we sped past. I also didn’t know if a welcoming committee was waiting for me at the farm—assuming some bright policeman had already scanned my mug through the databases and matched my name and last known address to it. But I like to look on the bright side when things are looking dreary. I have friends in high places that should be able to put the kibosh on the news reports. We just needed a little more time.

  It was time to make some calls. Giorgio’s old phone wasn’t that old, maybe one generation. I punched in the number for Dax Belmondo. He and his family were managing the farm. He was also commander of the District Criminal Investigation Unit. Any Police Nationale request to investigate any Cassine in his district would first be directed to his office. This was not my first rodeo, or his.

  It was late but not past his bedtime. Dax was a nap-taker. “I can sleep after I’m dead,” he always said.

  He answered on the third ring. “Whoever this is, you better be calling about a murder.”

  Funny man if he wasn’t dead serious. “Dax, it’s Luke.”

  I spent five minutes filling him in on all the details from our kidnapping, to our escape, to our capture again, and so on to the explosion at GCE. “We’re about an hour from home,” I concluded.

  “How many scrapes am I gonna have to get you out of, Luke?”

  “This is the last, Dax, I promise.”

  He laughed and grunted. “Until the next one. Not to worry, my boy.”

  I disconnected. The phone had been on speaker so Virna had listened without comment. She remained silent so I asked. “Tell me about your boyfriend, Giorgio.”

  “It’s really nothing. Stupid, actually. His little sister and I were best friends starting way back when we were five. Giorgio was in his twenties. On his weekends home from college he would take us out for ice-cream or to miniature golf. Kid stuff. When I was fourteen he came to a school dance with his sister as a chaperone. Their mother was crazy Catholic. Refused to accept her son was gay. Some new classmates asked me who that nice looking guy was and I just blurted out ‘that’s my boyfriend’. Giorgio overheard them making fun of me, calling me a lier, so he came over and said ‘hey girlfriend, let’s dance’, and led me off by the hand. We’ve called each other boyfriend and girlfriend ever since.”

  “And his daughter?”

  “Not gay. Adopted. Her family—mother, father, and two brothers died in a plane crash. She was the only survivor. She had no other close relatives other than Giorgio, so he adopted her. She was two.”

  I was impressed. “Not a bad man to have as a friend. I look forward to knowing him better after this is over. We should invite them to the wedding.”

  The Tesla was driving itself. She leaned over, wrapped her arms around my neck and planted a wet one. “I do love you, you know? Thank you.”

  She sat up, looked at the empty road ahead, turned back to me and said, “Old Tessa here is doing a mighty fine job driving herself, what’a you say to a little nascondere la salsiccia italiana?”

  That’s why I love her. I laughed, “In my wildest dreams, signora cattiva. Unfortunately for me, I need to make another call. How about eggs and sausage for breakfast?”

  “Sausage first,” she giggled. “Who’s beating my time?”

  “Ray Mattock.” I put the phone on speaker.

  It was mid-afternoon in California when Della answered the phone. We gabbed for a moment then she put Ray on. I gave him a complete briefing, same as I would do back in our CID days. He asked about the news reports. I assured him it was being handled. I told him my plans and asked if Mark could do a little reconnaissance before I arrived. He placed the phone on speaker.

  “Mark’s here, Luke. Tell him what you need.”

  Mark was a great investigator, and was invaluable last year uncovering the members of The Endowment and delivering Alice to me in Italy. I told him how Virna had planted a trojan horse code on the servers to learn where the files were being redirected. It was in rural Virginia. I nodded to Virna.

  “Mark, this is Virna. Nice to meet you. Here are the coordinates.” She read them out and Mark repeated them for accuracy.

  There was a long pause and we could hear Ray and Mark and Della discussing something, then Mark came back on.

  “Guys, the coordinates you gave correspond to an installation belonging to Overwatch. That’s the company your ex-FBI agents work for. It’s actually in Maryland. Along the Potomac River. Easy to mistake. North-west of Cobb Island. I’ll check it out. There’s a crab house nearby called Captain Crunch. I’ll meet you there once we can set a time.”

  We disconnected and I looked at Virna. “What” she said. “I was never good reading maps. They were designed by men for men. And I got lost on Google Earth, so sue me.”

  We drove up the dark, wooded valley to my farm and the old Italianate stone farmhouse, originally built by a retired French naval captain in 1818. The lights were on. We entered through the kitchen door and found a note on the large wooden table next to plates of cheese, fresh baked bread, olives, and a decanted bottle of Cabernet. The note was from Dax and was brief: Everything handled. I’m going to bed. Talk in morning.

  As tired as we both were, we sat and devoured the offering. Virna read the note and I gave her a thumbs-up—everything handled. Afterward, I led her upstairs to the bedroom I had not slept in since my wife, Annie, passed away. I paused and stared at the bed where she had died from a heart attack, while I was downstairs sleeping on a couch after an argument.

  Virna knew the story and pulled me away. “Let’s sleep in the other room.”

  We woke up at nine to the aroma of fresh coffee wafting up the stairs. I directed Virna to a closet where some of Annie’s cloths hung. “You’re the same size and I know she would want them to be worn by you—pretty please.” She grinned and reluctantly agreed, choosing a denim jumpsuit and lace-up boots. I pulled on jeans, a black shirt, and Merrell hikers. Finally something that fit.

  We found Dax and his wife, Angelina, in the kitchen. They greeted Virna with open arms and the two women hit it off, both being Italian. They started yapping so rapidly, I couldn’t keep up. Being from the same region of Italy, they understood every tone and gesture like two conductors leading the same orchestra. Dax placed coffee, and a plate of eggs and sausage on the table in front of me, then slid an iPad over for me to read.

  Retractions to the Tiberius bombing were all over the morning news feeds. They were all very similar:

  —Earlier reports linking the assassin Tiberius to the bombing at GCE in Turin, Italy have proven to be false. The commander of the District Criminal Investigation Unit in the Bresse province of France, Dax Belmondo, has verified that Tiberius, who’s real identity was Dante Renzi, died twelve years ago. His body is buried in an unmarked grave in the province. According to Commander Belmondo, Renzi confessed to a local priest as being the assassin, Tiberius. Dante Renzi died after contracting a deadly virus...

  The reports went on to identify the erroneous photo of me in some of the reports as being that of a local farmer who bore a minor resemblance to earlier sketches of Tiberius.

  “Dante Renzi?” I said.

  Dax grinned. “Local mob hitman. Died a decade ago from Ebola. He was cremated. He did confess his sins, on his deathbed, to a local
padre. The priest past away two years ago, I believe. Vai tranquillo.

  I extracted Virna from Angelina and pushed the iPad toward her. She sat down. While she was reading, Dax placed food in front of her. She never stopped reading as she devoured the food, then asked for more. I still have no idea where she puts all the food she eats. Her body never changes and she never complains about being stuffed.

  I handed Dax the key for the Tesla and all the other things Giorgio had been so kind to lend us, including the cash we never used. He promised it would be returned within the week. Then he and Angelina walked across the central farmyard to their larger, more modern home, and I went down to the basement. I returned, lugging a black, custom-made case bearing the blue INTERPOL logo and my name. Virna asked what it was and I showed her.

  The case contained my heavily modified AWM sniper rifle. I explained to her that my father had been a gunsmith in Oakland, California where I learned the skills needed to build or modify my own weapons. Also in the crate was my .44 magnum and my 9mm CZ75 Phantom—two weapons she had seen me use on our previous trip to Lake Lugano. The rifle stock was folded and the bolt removed. Everything fitted snuggly into foam pockets, including my shoulder harness, night-vision binocular, regular binocular, range-finder, a GLAUCA B1 folding knife, .300 Winchester Magnum ammunition and ammo for both handguns, energy bars, water canteen, a concealable bulletproof vest, my trusty safari vest, condoms, and a partridge in a pear tree. Just kidding about the condoms.

  She whistled. “You going to war, Luke?”

  I kissed her on the cheek. “One should never go on a repair call without one’s trusty tool kit.” I started to explain my five rules to her again but she beat me to it.

  “Never assume, never forget, never give up, and never take a knife to a gun-fight. And although we shouldn’t expect trouble, rule five, always plan that your plans will go up in smoke.”

  I smiled. “Who said anything about we?”

  She grabbed my head with both hands and pulled me close until our noses touched. “Don’t think for one moment, buster, you’re doing this without me. Till death do us part, remember?”

  “Yea, but we’re not married yet.”

  “And we won’t be if you cut me out of all the fun. I’m sick and tired of these bastards interfering in my sex life. So buckle up. When do we leave?”

  “Wait here.” I walked out of the room and returned shortly with a small case. I handed it to her. She opened it. “A Walther PPK,” I said.

  She gave me a big hug. “James Bond’s gun. You shouldn’t have. I didn’t get you a thing.”

  “We leave in twenty minutes. Dax is driving us to Lyon-Saint Exupéry Airport where we will board an Air France flight. I and my toolkit will be traveling under my diplomatic INTERPOL ID and passport. Dax has arranged your extradition papers and you will travel as my prisoner. A notorious criminal wanted for money laundering and numerous lurid activities in the States.”

  Virna was getting exited. “Do I get handcuffed and frisked? Please tell me you will frisk me before we board the plane. Do I need to change cloths, wear something sexier, wear a wig?”

  “Calm down. You’re plenty sexy, and your hair is perfect. And, yes, I will handcuff you. Frisking will come later.”

  “Spoilsport.”

  I stuffed her Walther in my case, closed and secured it. Dax honked. It was time to go.

  DAY THREE

  8

  Mark Swan was standing fifteen feet back from where the tree line and open farmland met. A quarter-mile across the open field stood the Overwatch facility. It wasn’t large, only four small buildings flanking a larger one. It looked for all accounts like all the other farms in the region—if you ignored the helicopter pad, the large array of solar panels, the satellite dishes, the cooling tower, the fifteen-foot high chain-link fence surrounding the installation, and the roving armed guards. Even the farmer plowing the fields was window dressing. In the past five hours Mark had scouted the area the tractor had plowed the same section four times.

  Mark allowed his Nikon P1000 to hang loosely as he checked his watch. It was eight-thirty-three in the morning. He jotted down more notes. He was just finishing when his phone vibrated. It was Luke. They agreed to meet in the parking lot of the crab restaurant in one hour. “It’s at the end of highway 257. You’ll pass by the Overwatch site on your right,” Mark explained. They exchanged car descriptions. “See you soon.”

  * * *

  John Adams was sitting at a console in the administration building. He had arrived the night before, prepared to put the next phase of his plan into action. He called the plan Reciprocity.

  Over the previous hours of darkness he had reviewed dozens of Looking Glass recordings obtained from the DOD servers before they were erased. A few featured his baby sister, Madelyn. Viewing her in various stages of undress as she killed filled his heavy heart with rage. More than once he wiped tears from his eyes as he witnessed the acts her adopted father, William Hedrin, Secretary of Defense, forced her to do in the name of The Endowment.

  The cold-blooded murder of Thomas Novak in San Francisco. The assassination of Senator Samuel G. Rainey in DC. The triple homicide of Nelson Roderick, his wife, and FBI Special Agent Sean O’Driscoll in Newport Beach. And the attempted killing of Luke Cassine and Virna Pieralisi in Lugano.

  All the major players of The Endowment were now dead, either at the hands of his sister, or Luke cassine. Only two remained.

  His attempt to redirect recording from the GCE servers was working. One of them he was quite familiar with. It was the glass ceiling view of the room in Lugano where he had been shot, and where he had recorded the location of the GCE servers in Turin. The only other recording was the brief view inside the president’s private study when Cassine had asked the machine, Alice, to show him the two remaining Looking Glass installations. It was a stroke of luck that Thomas Novak had accomplished the installation of that particular covert spying device. From the viewing angle of the room, Adams had determined it was from above the fireplace. Most likely the massive, gold-framed mirror Novak had given to the new president as an inauguration gift.

  Adams stretched and yawned. Nearly a day without sleep. fatigue was setting in and he knew he needed to be sharp for the next phase. He walked out of the administration building toward the barracks. It was after nine. He would sleep for six hours, then prepare for the next morning when he would release the first video.

  * * *

  Mark had reserved rooms for us at the Blue Star motel. He had even brought some of our cloths from Napa with him. Ours was room 214 and we made a quick stop to unload my toolkit and unload our bladders.

  Virna and I were now southbound on highway 257, approaching the point where Mark said we would be passing the Overwatch facility on our right. A forest of trees wizzed past on our right, while open farmland stood still on our left. Then suddenly it switched. Trees on our left and a large open farm on our right. I slowed our Jeep Grand Cherokee down under thirty and saw the tall chain-link fence. In the middle, ahead, stood a closed gate and a guard booth. I slowed even more and glided up to the guard booth and stopped.

  “What are you doing?” Virna asked somewhat alarmed.

  “Stay in the car.”

  I climbed out and walked up to the guard who was walking toward me. We met on opposite sides of the gate. I smiled and tried to look lost. I glanced around, looking bewildered, while looking for CCTV. I found the camera on the side of the booth looking straight at me. Fuck.

  “Hey, we’re lost,” I said. “My lady can’t read a map worth a damn. Can you tell me how to get to Plum Island? No, wait, I think it’s called Cobb Island.”

  The guard pointed down the road. “Take the next right and you’ll run right into it.” He waved at the pretty blonde smiling at him from the passenger’s seat. “Pretty lady. You must be rich to land a looker like that.”

  They say inspiration strikes when you least expect it. So always be alert, grab it and use it. I loo
ked over my shoulder at Virna and said, “Nah. She’s a hooker. I picked her up in Waldorf. She’d go with any guy who had a dollar, a condom, and a back seat that folds down.” I was winging it. I turned back to the guard and glanced down the road leading to the Overwatch facility. “Is this a farm or a prison?”

  “Private property.” He glanced past me at Virna. “How much, really?”

  I couldn’t believe my ploy was actually working. It was one of those spur of the moment things, so I turned on my Samuel L Jackson charm. “Hey man, before we continue, is that camera working?”

  He shook his head. “Fuck no. Nothing on this base works. Toilets are backed up half the time and we have to use a fucking outhouse. Hell, our phones still don’t work and we’ve been here a month.”

  Things were looking up. I turned to face Virna and made the motion to lower her window. She did and leaned out. I said, “This guy want’s to know how much for a quick roll in the hay.” Virna could suss out a situation in a heartbeat when it came to the subject of sex.

  “I don’t do it in hay. Too itchy. Tell him I’m free tonight. Available that is. I ain’t free. Hundred bucks for an hour.”

  I faced the guard. “You heard the lady. You want her tonight?”

  “You her pimp?”

  Why not? “The fuck you think I’m standing here for? I know you got a boatload of horny dudes in there.” I pointed to the facility down the road. “Bring a buddy and we’ll call it a buck-seventy-five for an hour.” The guard was my size, so was Mark, so I added, “She likes big brawny types like you’n me. Bring someone your size. Oh, and wear your uniforms. She really gets off on men in uniform.” I turned to face Virna who was listening to every word. “Don’t ya, baby?”

  “You fellas Army or Marines?” she shouted.

  The guard puffed his chest. “Ex-Army, honey. My buddy, LeRoy was a jarhead.”

  It was time to package the deal. “You know that Blue Star motel up the highway?”